Kindred Spirit
by Rosepeony
Summary: Post Nothing Gold Can Stay. What did Jane do after he left Vega's funeral? Jane meets a stranger who helps him explore his feelings and motivation, and those of Lisbon. Will he find understanding and solutions, or at least hope of moving forward.
1. Chapter 1

**I would have loved to know what Jane did between leaving Lisbon at the funeral and the scene where we saw him sitting on the steps of the Airstream. He looked to me like he wasn't that unhappy, not too stressed and I wondered what had happened to lighten his mood. I also don't think his feelings and the background to them were ever fully expressed in the show, so I need to write this to make myself feel better about the whole sad situation.**

 **I fully expect that this story will not be popular. Hell, there's no Lisbon, so no Jisbon, so I'm guessing only a couple of reviews. Be gentle with me though.**

 **So here goes, I'm throwing caution to the wind and if I get a good response I'll be a very happy bunny.**

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Woody cursed a soft expletive. It rolled out of his mouth like he was just passing the time of day with an old friend.

He eased the vehicle as tight as he could, up to the rear of the huge shiny obstacle occupying the greater part of the narrow pull in and craned his scraggy neck out of the open window. To his dismay, the tail of his van stuck dangerously out onto the dirty grey tarmacadam of the i- 40.

"Hey man!" he yelled amiably to the other driver, "You wanna pull your vehicle forward some?"

As he received no reply and observed no movement, after a few moments Woody threw open the door, clambered down and ambled forward to the front of the silver Airstream, admiring her sleek lines and generous proprtions as he passed.

As a man with no particular place to be, Woody was in no hurry, he scuffed his boots into the dry earth and drank in the warmth of the sun as he went, sending up puffy clouds of dust. Life was good, so he wasn't going to give this obviously rich dude any hassle over hogging parking space.

Drawing level with the window, which was, surprisingly, wound all the way up on this somewhat sultry afternoon, he peered in to see the unexpected shape of a blond man in a sombre, formal business suit sitting slumped in the driver's seat, his head leant back against the rest, face drawn and pale, eyes closed and mouth lolling open.

For a few surreal moments Woody had a horrible feeling all was not well.

Then he noticed the man's left hand clench imperceptibly before it relaxed as he expelled a small sigh, which seemed to release some of the tension in his furrowed brow.

He tapped softly on the dusty screen and the man only ran his tongue over his dry lips and closed his mouth.

After a few more gentle taps on the glass beside him Patrick Jane stirred. He gasped instinctively and blinked against the bright sun reflecting off the dash. Then he shut his eyes tight again and groaned before settling back down with folded arms, only to be disturbed anew by yet more insistent tapping.

Reluctantly Jane lifted one heavy lid, then the other, and formed them into two narrow slits, he turned his head slowly and found himself confronted by the smiling face of an aging, grey haired hippie wearing mismatched, patched up denim and an ancient, much laundered, plaid shirt.

The man grinned at him hopefully and mimed a turning motion with a wiry, weather beaten fist, then stood back politely.

Jane yawned with dramatic petulance, but obediently stretched out an arm, lowered the window then settled once more with his eyes deliberately closed and waited silently.

Woody chuckled.

"Sorry man. I can see you're busy, but could you move your palace forward. My Betty's ass is stickin' out into the road."

He gestured behind him with a fond smile. "Wouldn't want to get her backside knocked by a truck."

Jane roused himself with a moan. Still half asleep, he rubbed both palms briskly over his face and swivelled in his seat to find out who it was who had the audacity to interrupt his nap. Although, in truth, he had only stopped for a swig of water, only _had_ to stop because the bottle had slipped down behind the seat. Had no intention to or hope of falling asleep.

"Uh …. Pardon … sorry?" he mumbled, not really having a clue what was happening, but he scrambled to open the door nevertheless and tumbled out, practically landing in the other man's arms and stumbling as he misjudged the distance to the ground.

A surprised Woody leapt back nimbly, "Hey, careful there, man. You alright?"

The disoriented FBI consultant regained his lost balance, brushed down his wrinkled clothing and hurriedly gathered his wits about him.

"Er, yeah. Sure. Er … fine …" he blustered as he assessed the situation with a sweeping scan of the area, through eyes that were still trying to find equilibrium.

There appeared to be some kind of mirage.

What he actually saw was an early model VW camper; primrose yellow with the roof a fading ochre and the name Betty colourfully emblazoned along her side in an amateurish but charmingly psychedelic script. There was a long white surf board, wrapped in crudely woven and threadbare woolen blankets, probably Mexican, strapped securely to the roof rack with half a dozen bungees and some blue rope.

Jane liked what he saw. Betty's undeniably rusty panels and pitted chromework had definitely seen better days, but she was obviously well loved. Her owner obviously valued the past, loyalty and reliability. His old friends. And valued possessions.

That was something he could relate to.

His eyes briefly drifted down to his beloved brown leather shoes … twelve years old, and on their eighth set of new soles, but still going strong.

"Ahhhh … Betty… " he exclaimed, eyes widening to accompany a warm smile of realisation as he finger pointed alternately between Betty and her proud owner.

"Of course. I'm in your way. So sorry. Why didn't you say?"

Woody looked the odd man up and down a time or two, watching curiously, as he stood there, in his inappropriate clothing, now with his hands in his jacket pockets, still smiling and trying tiredly to figure things out, but giving no indication that he was going to move his own vehicle.

"You look beat," he told Jane and extended a gnarled hand. "I'm Woody. After Woody Guthrie. Dad was a fan."

Jane gazed absently for a moment, at the man's equally eccentric garb, at the little yellow smiley badge lovingly apliqued to the pocket of his denim jacket, gave a tiny ironic smirk, then stepped forward quietly.

"Patrick," he offered, "My dad was Irish, I guess. Pleased to meet you ... and Betty."

"Nice ain't she?" Woody nodded at his beaten up VW, pleased with the way the townie had seemed interested in her, "Why don't you pull forward then, so I can get her straight, then I'll make us a brew and I'll show you around."

Jane beamed.

"That sounds like a plan," he said gratefully, feeling encouraged beyond belief by the word brew.

"You have tea?" he enquired with some enthusiasm, but he eyed Betty and her owner cautiously, hoping he would not be stepping into an unknown world of concoctions mixed up when Dylan was still singing protest songs. Still, the prospect of a cuppa gave him the impetus to practically leap up into the cab of the Airstream and move it forward a few feet.

"What is this stuff?" Jane asked, when they were safely ensconced in the cosy van and he had his hands wrapped around a steaming enamel mug of unidentified brown liquid. He sniffed suspiciously and pondered, wafting the steam with his hand.

The VW was filled with an unmistakable aroma of sandalwood and cigarette smoke laced with something more funky, which had hit him as soon as he had stepped over the threshold and he couldn't help wondering about the tea …

"I think I detect chamomile, but other than that … there's nothing in here I wouldn't want to be drinking, is there?" He pointed into the cup with a stirring motion and a knowing grin.

"Nah, it's just a special mix my lady introduced me to way back," Woody assured, "Get it from a little place down in Santa Fe."

He grinned back at Jane's sceptical expression. "Green tea base, valerian, and a few other things. Just herbs. Nothing hinky. But if you'd like to join me later on …" The tone was serious, with an undercurrent of encouragement that said 'come on, loosen up, live a little'.

"Uh … I think I'll probably pass on that," Jane raised his palm quickly. "I ... er, had an ... erm ... experience with unconventional substances. Umm ... not the stuff I believe you're offering ... but all the same."

He deliberately took another sip, "But this is nice."

And it was.

He leant back against the thin back of the bench seat, which was typically draped in some kind of printed Indian textile; elephants and swirling paisley patterns, block printed in softly faded multi coloured vegetable dyes.

He didn't care that he was being observed by a complete stranger. For once he let his guard down. He was exhausted, and it was good to be able to relax with something other than driving to distract him for the first time since he fled from his love; a guilty, confused, deeply sad man.

More than sixteen long hours had elapsed since Jane had finally escaped Austin.

After the funeral he'd taken a taxi to pick up the Airstream, then stopped by the office to leave a brief handwritten message on Abbot's desk and pick up a few bits and pieces from the tiny space that he called his own, beside his couch. There were a couple of books and a photograph which he'd been looking at when he'd been called away and he'd left lying there. He slipped her picture between the pages of one of the books and left quickly, thankful that the place was virtually empty. Vega's wake was an ironic blessing he thought.

Since he'd been on the road, after stopping for a few essential supplies at a small supermarket, he'd only stopped for gas and a pee. Even though he'd filled her up before he left, his silver bucket wasn't built for economy and it was better not to overload her sanitary facilities if he could use public ones.

As dawn was breaking he'd pulled into a run down diner for an egg breakfast and some tea to comfort himself and stoke his own energy supplies.

The food tasted like cardboard, and the tea he wasn't aware of tasting at all, but he supposed it was OK. Still, he'd pushed the food around the plate until it got cold. He only ate half of it, before he shoved the plate away and sat there staring at his hands resting in front of him on the table.

He felt relieved to be away, but miserable as all hell.

He figured later that he must have painted a pretty morose picture, sitting there in his cocoon of fatigue and self pity, because the waitress, who was mousy and tall, but still contrived to remind him of Lisbon, felt compelled to ask if he was unwell and did he need a first aider.

He felt inordinately embarrassed, an unusual state for him, so he'd immediately mustered up a first class grin … hoping it didn't manifest as a grimace … and left a far bigger tip than he should have.

Then he'd got back on the road and had driven all day, with only another toilet and gas break.

As it turned out driving hadn't been much of a distraction anyway.

All he'd been able to think about was how weak he was. And how he show have been stronger.

And how strong Teresa was. And how she shouldn't have to be.

He didn't want to think about all that right now though, sitting here with this kind stranger.

It made him feel guilty. Why should he burden this man, who he'd only just met, with his sorrows?

But then trying not to think about his horrible situation made him feel guilty too.

And feeling guilty was an all too familiar state of affairs.

One which he _had_ hoped he was beginning to leave behind him. Until he left and added another reason to feel guilty to the list.

But he had left.

And once again, the curse was clinging to his back like a heavy black shroud.

Time to snap out of it.

He took a long drawn out sip of the suspiciously comforting herbal brew, brightened up his face and turned his attention to his host, who was fussing around with something in the little cooking area.

"So Woody, you have a lady?" he ventured. "Not for some time I'm guessing," he paused and examined the man's subtle response, "She wanted to settle down. You wanted to roam? ... but you're a long way from the surf."

Woody didn't seem phased. Just resigned.

"Perceptive eh. You're not a psychic, are you Patrick?"

The reply was a well practiced, good natured sigh,

"No … just paying attention."

"You're right though." Woody admitted sadly. "She was a lovely girl. We stuck it out for twenty years I guess. Had a kid together. Never tied the knot though, us being free spirits 'n all. She had enough in the end. Had a yearning to put down roots, have a vegetable patch, roses round the door, rocker on the porch. That sorta thing. Can't say I blame her."

"Yeah, I can appreciate that," said Jane wistfully and consulted the contents of his mug.

"I guess she had a rod up her back and I lived a little looser," Woody continued. "She couldn't bend and I had trouble standin' straight, needed to take the winding road, chase the waves …" but then he hesitated, a misty look in his old grey eyes.

He hadn't confronted his feelings on his sorely missed partner for a while. It was disconcerting that it had only taken a few minutes with a complete stranger to set him thinking.

"Still miss her," he said simply.

Jane studied him with a deeply thoughtful expression. He was wondering what had made Woody choose to drive inland, away from the ocean, at this particular time.

He hadn't expected to be counselling anyone but himself on this road trip, certainly not another lonely soul with an aching heart, but the story felt something like looking into a mirror of his own possible future. And it felt uncomfortably similar to his recent past.

"Maybe we should have tried harder," the world weary hippie finally admitted.

"Almost certainly," Jane mumbled to the tea mug. "And talked more."

There was a quiet moment and Jane closed his eyes, resting his head back against the side window of the van, feeling comfortable and safe, unthreatened by the accusing eyes of friends who knew him better than this new friend did.

And thinking he was dozing, Woody was glad to let the painful topic drift to a close until Jane suddenly continued speaking, eyes still loosely shut.

It was unclear to Woody if the stranger was confiding in him or merely voicing sleepy musings.

"Wish _we_ could have talked properly," Jane slurred drowsily. "… just ended up in circles … cross purposes …so scared … doesn't understand … not her fault … couldn't watch …"

Woody watched the emotions play out like a movie on Jane's face until he saw the release or tension that preceeded sleep, then he leant forward and caught the cup, with it's few dregs of herbal tea, as slender fingers gradually loosened their grip on the handle and it slipped into his hand.

As he gradually lost consciousness it occurred to Patrick Jane that this wasn't the 'someplace nice' he'd had in mind.

But it would do for tonight.

And Woody might just be a kindred spirit.

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 **I'll be hoping to post the other half about the same time next week, but a favourable response might hurry me along.**

 **Thanks for giving me a chance.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry on two counts; first the woefully long time I took to update, and two for the quality of this offering. This chapter really got away from me, I struggled. I'm ashamed to say, it's got seriously bogged down, the words wouldn't flow, I lost Woody's identity along the way and Jane has become a mood swinging mess that I think has become totally OOC, but I've tried so hard that I feel I must post it anyway and hope that the final chapter will come together more successfully. Anyway, read on brave Mentalistas.**

 **Thanks also for all the very flattering reviews to the first chapter, which I've been too lazy to acknowledge ... makes me feel even worse about this one ;)**

 **Oh by the way I was so pissed off with it that I haven't proof read. So beware errors.**

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Barely an hour passed before Jane was woken by the familiar aroma of frying food and the less welcome sound of Hotel California being whistled badly off key but with obvious enjoyment.

His vision cleared just as two mismatched plates, laden with generous slices of fatty ham and topped with a couple of tasty looking eggs, landed with a clink on the tiny table top wedged into the cramped floor space of the camper. The vehicle's owner stopped whistling, plonked himself down opposite him and grinned mischievously, "Thought that would get your eyes open soon enough," he teased. "Hungry?"

"I'd have preferred the original," came the grumbled reply.

Jane complained about the whistled assault on his ears, but his po-faced reaction soon changed as he stretched out, straightened himself to sit properly and looked down at the unexpectedly delightful sight of two enticing golden yolks, smiling up at him like little domes of sunshine.

"Eggs!" he exclaimed on the back of a long, grateful sigh. "How did you know?"

Woody beamed at the grown man who displayed all the innocent, wide-eyed wonder of a small child.

He threw down an assortment of cutlery, "Who doesn't love an egg, eh? Tuck in," he instructed.

"Exactly … Ambrosia," Jane agreed heartily and selected a bone handled knife and a tarnished silver fork which he rubbed absently on the soft fabric of his shirt sleeve, "…food of the gods, my friend," he declared.

The two men ate in silence, just like old friends, their peace and quiet only interrupted by the singing of the kettle Woody had set on the gas burner to boil water for a drink.

When Jane had finished, he placed his knife and fork neatly, at an angle, and sat quietly for a moment longer, looking pensive, but content, while his host took his time. As he pondered, he found that he was pleasantly surprised. This time his food hadn't been tainted with guilt and sadness, remorse and desperation. Unlike this morning's diner breakfast, which he'd been unable to eat, it didn't taste like cardboard.

It amused and pleased him that the magical effect his favourite food usually had could be so radically altered by time, place and company; that a man in a clapped out old van could influence his taste buds this way, when restaurateurs and café owners invested millions and still couldn't make him happy, if he wasn't. Even with eggs. That the absence of one particular woman could make food resemble processed wood pulp and ditch water and a humble hippie could work a miracle of reversal was testament to the imense power of human emotion. The combination of Woody and eggs was soothing to his soul.

Almost before he knew it, a slow smile was even beginning it's valiant fight to escape the veil of Jane's obvious depression. The smile twitched beguilingly at the edges of his lips, and with it shimmering light edged into his eyes, transforming gloomy grey into mysterious pacific.

This subtle but significant change in demeanour was so encouraging, so compelling that Woody couldn't fail to seize on it; the perfect opportunity to satisfy the niggling curiosity, the interest in the human condition, that training had instilled in him years ago and still lingered.

This man was a story waiting to be unraveled.

Woody struck while his subject's guard was still weakened by the comforting flavour of the eggs.

If there had been ice cream, Jane would have been putty in his hands.

"So, Richard Kimble," he asked, out of the blue. "What did you do? Who you on the run from?"

Almost immediately Jane's face froze, but not quickly enough to warn Woody not to continue, so he waved his nicotine stained fingers around, indicating Jane's tired, but expensive three piece suit and well worn linen shirt. "I mean, this has to be a disguise. Right? But a man doesn't go on a road trip dressed for the office … so it's not gonna fool ..."

As he spoke he watched the colour drain from the man's face, felt the waft of warm air when the breath deserted his lungs, saw his body sag beneath the tailored shoulders of his jacket and his eyes go to some darker time and place. Then he saw Jane carefully compose himself, his gaze purposefully averted and breathing slow and deliberate, until he lifted his curly blond head, looked steadily back with a stony stare and simply said.

"Yeah. I've seen The Fugitive; who hasn't? And no, I didn't kill my wife. I just got her killed."

Woody sat, mortified.

Jane rose and silently left the van.

And the kettle whistled, shrill and piercing.

Woody ignored the kettle and waited, listening. He expected to hear the slamming of a door, the angry growling of an over revved engine, followed by the skidding and rumble of the RV pulling away at speed.

It never came.

So, after what seemed to be an appropriate length of time, he lifted the boiling kettle off the stove and turned off the gas. He stepped cautiously over to the door and peered into the gloom, before venturing outside to see Jane sitting cross legged in the dirt on the opposite side of the road; a darkly romantic silhouette bathed in the rosy light of a rapidly fading sun.

Raising his voice a little to be heard across the breadth of the highway, he called out.

"I'm sorry," was all he felt able to say. It felt inadequate, but then, what words were ever enough.

The reply was slow to arrive, Woody was still debating whether to cross the road and try another approach when it came.

"You weren't to know."

Jane's voice was small, emotionless, and could hardly be heard, even in the near silence of the deserted highway. "I don't suppose I'm notorious everywhere."

Woody walked over and sat down quietly beside the hunched figure; prepared to listen, or just sit.

"May I?" he asked as he lowered himself to the ground, neither expecting nor receiving an answer.

Only the faint plaintive screech of a lone bird of prey in the distance fractured the charged atmosphere.

"But you're right, in many ways," Jane eventually continued, not acknowledging the other man's presence, only staring without seeing, at a spot between his feet. "My wife _is_ dead."

His voice dropped til it almost dissolved away into the approaching night. "And my daughter. A long time ago."

He whispered through an anguished breath that he drew in in little gasps.

There was another painful pause before he added, louder and a bit more brightly, "And I am running away … sort of. And I suppose you could call this a disguise. Has been for years … one way or another. But it's what I'm comfortable with."

Then he lapsed into more silence and it seemed as if he'd said all he had to say.

For several long minutes, Woody sat, looking out to the horizon along with Jane; a consciously non-threatening mirror of the lonely man's pose. Now he turned and looked him up and down, getting a feel for his state of mind. The vibe he got was of deep sadness, but little more. Maybe resignation. Certainly, there seemed to be no animosity.

"Kettle's boiled," he announced, getting to his feet with as little fuss as possible. No mean feat, the way his old knees were these days. "Want a cup of tea?"

Jane shifted a bit, making himself more comfortable in the sandy earth.

Woody didn't wait around for an answer, but when he returned clutching two steaming mugs in one hand and swinging an old oil lamp in the other, Jane looked up at him through the gathering gloom, for the sun had finally disappeared. His face now spoke of shamefaced gratitude. And he wore a bright, but forced smile.

"I owe you an apology," he explained. "I abused your hospitality…falling asleep like that. Must have been more tired than I thought. Haven't been sleeping too well. Many things on my mind. Sorry I over reacted."

He let the smile slip slowly off his face, wiped his hands on his trousered thighs, a nervous tic, and accepted the mug that Woody offered. He looked down into the greenish liquid solemnly and wafted the steam with the practiced hand of a connoisseur, then he proceeded to test the temperature with tentative lips.

After a few cautious sips, he caught Woody's eye with another wan smile.

"This is lovely. Delicious. Thank you," he said with undeniable sincerity. " Now, I'll just drink up and get out of your hair. You'll never have to see me again."

This was something Woody had not expected, since Jane hadn't stormed off immediately, so he turned with determination.

"No," he insisted, gently but firmly.

"Really, I should…"

But a strong hand on his shoulder as he made a move to rise, kept Jane on the ground.

"You're not going anywhere, Paddy, my boy. Just relax."

Woody looked at him sternly. "You needed that sleep," he told him. "Now you need to talk. I reckon you don't do that often enough, eh?"

He grinned wickedly, "Besides, you wouldn't deny a worn out old dude a bit of company, would you. Intelligent chat can be a bit hard to come by on the road. Specially lookin' like I do."

Jane sat looking up at the man with the little yellow smiley on his jacket. A little frustrated. Wishing he was somewhere else, but knowing he couldn't be where he wanted to be. And something about this man made him a little apprehensive, with his eagerness to help, insistence that he talk. And his kindness … he wasn't comfortable with kindness.

The traveler dragged a hand through the tangles of his shaggy grey hair, snagging the slender golden band that resided on his gnarled finger. A sudden reflection of the oil lamp's golden glow off the ring caught Jane's attention and tugged at his already taught heartstrings.

It made him shiver.

And a cog turned in his shrewd brain.

"Thought you weren't married," he remarked wryly, trying to deflect, but inwardly grimacing as his mistake punched him in the gut. He was off his game. Allowing his subconscious to bring up subject's that were better buttoned down ...

Woody whipped his hand away from his head, and looked at the ring briefly, wondering if he might be considered a hypocrite. "I'm not," he said, "It's symbolic."

Jane managed to keep the muscles of his face temporarily taught, under control, just for a while, but he'd been having trouble with that all night, so they betrayed him.

And Woody, being an observer of all things human, saw the slip. He saw Jane flinch and glance at his own hand and twist Angela's ring uneasily.

Not in the same way as yours, of course," he hastened to explain. "But it means a lot to me,"

" Oh .. yeah. Well …" Jane muttered.

If he'd been in the bullpen, it would have been time to retreat to the break room and dump his tea down the sink.

Unfortunately he wasn't, so Jane shifted uncomfortably, feeling the tug of solitude, the comfort of his own company. No questions to answer. No justifications to be made. Only having to relive the memories he chose to revisit.

But Woody changed the subject. To another source of pain. Caught him on the hop.

"So, anyway, tell me about this new gal you're shying away from," he suddenly asked.

Jane covered his discomfort with a long draught of the tea he couldn't throw down the sink; a distinctly different potion from the one he'd been served before, but no less pleasant, just more refreshing. He settled himself again and looked up at the man; not so different from himself: clever, good at thinking on his feet, deflecting, probing, but also a lonely man, a little bit melancholy and, like him, running away from, rather than toward something. But undecided. Conflicted.

Woody was intriguing.

What the hell, Jane thought, fortified by the tea. Nothing to lose.

"Well," he said seriously. "I should warn you. It's a long story."

Woody was somewhat taken aback, but pleased.

"O… kay… Then we should go back inside, before it gets cold or the coyotes bite our backsides."

….

...

They didn't appear to be the hands of a killer.

Large enough, maybe, and therefore strong, but they were soft, with long artistic fingers, well manicured and clean, and when he spoke they moved with an eloquence and ease that belied sensitivity, intelligence and wit. But when at rest … well it seemed they were seldom at rest; constantly rubbing finger against finger, flexing with nervous energy. But still, it was hard to believe them capable of taking a life.

"So, how did it feel?"

Jane was shocked. This man was direct, unnervingly so. No one had ever dared ask that question before. In more than two years no one had actually put him on the spot. They always skirted around it. No one. Not even Lisbon. Especially not her.

He found he hadn't even analysed the question himself.

"I .. I .. don't know… " he stammered.

"OK"

He'd lived through it, then put it away behind a locked door in the palace. He'd lived with how it felt, when something on occasion would trigger the memory, but he'd perfected the art of concealment so no explanations had ever been necessary. He could gloss over the feelings, tell the story with detachment, and people seldom dug too deep, out of embarrassment or shock. And he'd only had to do it a couple of times, except when he used the story for his own purposes when he could relate the facts and dress them as required. Sometimes he'd found this to be cathartic. But he had never actually thought about those feelings, analysed them, justified them or confronted them.

For some reason, tonight the detachment seemed to extend to his emotions as they related to Red John's death. Maybe that had something to do with the current reason for his anxiety. It took priority among his worries now; the precarious state of his relationship with Teresa. In fact his whole future. Their whole future … because like it or not his future was inextricably bound with hers and he knew he wanted it to be.

The Red John thing was, as he'd told Lisbon, 'done' 'over' and he'd moved on to another, albeit connected, crisis.

As he thought, and Woody sat quietly observing, he discovered that the prospect of exploring his feelings of those moments and of what he'd done, gave him some sense of relief. It felt like he might be drawing a line under the subject and adding a full stop, and there was something about Woody and the atmosphere of his little piece of sixties make-believe that made him less reluctant to talk.

"I suppose it was like an out of body experience," he found himself explaining, quite dispassionately. "The most intense ecstasy, indescribable … like it wasn't really me."

He was quite calm, looking down at his hands, the hands of a killer, resting on the table, relaxed, quiet.

"I could hear a voice telling him to confess. My voice. I don't remember feeling my hands on his neck, just the anger building, but not really anger. Something else. Then an implosion of relief and weakness. Shaking. I couldn't stop shaking and wanting to cry."

Woody coaxed gently. "And after."

"Nothing. Emptiness."

"What did you do?"

"I ran. I'd already used up all my credit with the justice system, the FBI were gunning for me and Blake was everywhere. Didn't have anything planned. Hadn't expected to come out of it alive, or even care. Even put a gun to my head."

"What stopped you?"

"Teresa."

"What was her reaction?"

"Never found out. I phoned her, straight after, but it went to voice mail. Left a message, telling her I was alright. Then I ran. Spent two years, living in some kind of sunshiny bubble on a Venezuelan island, walking around kidding myself I was happy, smiling at people, thinking it was real."

"Did you keep in touch with her, during those two years?"

"I wrote her letters, nothing special, just telling her what I was up to, which wasn't much. I didn't know if she received them then, while I was writing, couldn't risk revealing my location, but it kept me sane."

"Not love letters then?"

Jane shook his head ruefully and huffed. The first emotion he'd shown since they'd sat down to properly talk.

"I told her I missed her … but not how much."

Woody gave him a moment, moved on.

"But she waited for you?"

"Well not exactly. We had never been together in that way and it was always complicated between us, mostly because of him, Red John, and I was not entirely blameless. I can be difficult, " he tried a self deprecating smile but it came out ugly. "And I was hopeful when I returned, but we'd forgotten how to communicate and I was still more screwed up than I thought. Still am I guess."

"But you're with her now?"

Jane's voice cracked to a pained whisper, and he sought solace in the painted ceiling of the VW, which someone, not Woody, had decorated with a filigree of delicate winding branches and colourful little birds.

"I was. Think I still am," he said. "If I haven't thrown it all away. I'm something of an expert at that."

Suddenly, his epic tale of love won and lost, of new love found and now in perilous danger, became much more difficult to tell. Jane's dispassionate resolve to tell his story began to crumble in the face of the helplessness he'd been feeling lately. A hopeless spiral of fear had been dragging him down since the day he declared his love for Teresa. It seemed he was being punished all over again for being happy.

He dropped his head and cradled his whole face in his hands, suddenly weary, spent and dispirited.

Woody discretely got up from the table, busying himself by putting away the tea things and the plates that were hurriedly shoved aside when they'd left the van earlier. He went to the small cubbyhole over the sink and returned with a half full bottle of bourbon and a couple of small tumblers.

He poured a small amount into each glass and pushed one over to Jane.

"Here. Go easy though, it's all I've got," he instructed. "Don't talk any more, if you don't want to. But it's cool either way. It'll do you good. And I'm a good listener."

 _Don't talk if you don't want to. It'll do you good. I'm a good listener._

Jane let those phrases ferment and swell, until a thought that bothered him began to tumble around and take form as a hunch. The cogs started to whir and tickle him with a sudden flare of clarity. A glimpse of the old certainty that had been so absent these past days.

 _A good listener. Only talk if you want to._

Instantly the enigmatic nomad became a bit more transparent to him.

He raised his head in deliberately dramatic slow motion. Slightly red rimmed and bitterly sad eyes connected with shrouded, knowing eyes that saw everything but gave away no secrets; so similar to the reflection in his bathroom mirror most days. On the days when equilibrium ruled and he was ready to face the world. Not on the days when things were good, when he was with Lisbon. On those days light shone back.

"And I think you're a dreadful old fraud, Mr. Free Spirit. But you're wearing your mask right now. You're as rooted in conventional thought as the rest of them. Who do you think you're kidding with all these hippie trappings? It's all smoke and mirrors, isn't it … idealistic magic, delusions, illusions. Hated your old life didn't you, but it's still hiding behind that mask."

Jane rolled his eyes around the van with a smirk on his lips. "But I'll have a drink with you, _and_ I'll talk. If _you_ will. Nothing much to lose,"

He made as if to reach for his wallet, "How much d'ya charge?"

Woody took the challenge in his stride, a twinkle rising from behind his mask. "Takes one to know one Mr. Psychic, but you shouldn't beat yourself up so much about what you used to, you're very good at it. After all it's what much of society's all about; promising the earth, delivering what people think they want and turning a profit. There'll always be weak, stupid and gullible people. Besides, it's all just a matter of degrees of exploitation. And perception."

The smirk deserted Jane's face as he began to protest, fingers twitching with irritation, eyes skittering in sockets darkened by tiredness.

"Where the hell did that come from. That's all bull," he spat, voice low but sharp and brittle. "What I did back then was wrong. I lied. It got my wife and child killed … I'll always be …"

"No. That was Red John. And you're not that man now." He let it sink in. "Are you?"

Woody held Jane's attention with calm strength and complete sincerity and the conviction born of his stillness, commanding and reassuring despite his small stature and drifter's garb.

Jane felt himself being … well …Janed.

He felt his anger shrinking back.

So he pushed it away with a huge expulsion of breath, and took a swig of alcohol to smooth the edges off his nerves, then let himself fall back against the elephants on the Indian cotton throw, arms loose in his lap and stared at the birds on the ceiling until he felt calm return.

After a few moments he lifted his head, sighed softly, and with a bashful smile, ashamed at the volatility, the lack of control, he'd just displayed, he looked at Woody.

"Oh, I think I am ... but I'm trying."

Woody spread his hands, flat and wide and open on the table. He lent slowly forward, just enough to make his point, but not enough to threaten.

"Look man, tragedy made you a different person, that's obvious, inevitable," he paused for thought, considering how much he himself wanted to reveal. "OK, I left my old profession, what ever you think that was, for less dramatic reasons. It was never a good fit anyway. And now _I'm_ a different person. It is what it is. Besides other things got in the way …"

Again interest was piqued and tentative confidence restored,

Jane straightened up a little.

"Betty …?"

"She was Elizabeth back then, still is to me. Changed everything. Together we were a force of nature … no choice but to set out on our grand adventure, ditch the day jobs, upturn professional restrictions, find freedom," he stifled an ironic, mirthless laugh, "Two disillusioned dreamers, full of misguided idealism … but the perfect dream seldom lasts, does it Patrick? Difficult thing to pin down. Floats away like cotton candy on the breeze."

"That it does … " nodded Jane in sad agreement.

"Anyway, she and I've both moved on. Just like you're trying to."

Jane felt himself wilt at the reminder of an eternity of trying. Constantly being urged to try. And failing.

"You have no idea what … nobody knows …"

"I know Patrick, you think there's no comparison. And I don't mean to belittle your past or your current troubles. But you and I, we're both different men now. Shaped by our experiences, but the core of a man still remains, we're both still the same people. Both still resorting to wearing our disguises, but the same man inside. We just have to find the best way for us in this world."

The scepticism radiating from the body beneath Jane's smartly tailored three piece disguise was palpable, but Woody soldiered on. He could never resist a challenge.

"Look," he said earnestly. "I may not be exactly what you assumed I was, and I reckon you've already sussed me, but I'll bet my Betty against your Airstream that I can help you."

"She's called the Silver Bucket." Jane told him plainly.

"Wanna tell me some more then? Let me help you?"

"Couldn't hurt, I suppose.

* * *

 **I'll try to update soon as,don't hold your breath ... but I promise I will.**


	3. Chapter 3

**My first priority is to say a big thank you to all who've given this story a chance. I've had some lovely reviews so far, from people whose writing I admire, and that those people even bother to review, I regard as a great compliment. My special thanks go to Louise Kurylo who has dragged me from a pit of insecurity and frustration and encouraged me to carry on.**

 **Something I forgot to mention in the notes for the last chapter ... I hope you all got the reference to The Fugitive ... for those who don't know, it was a sixties TV show in which a man went on the run, hunting for the killer of the wife he had been falsely accused of killing.**

 **I had thought this would be the last chapter. It isn't. Clearly Jane and Woody have the gift of the gab. I would also advise you to go back and re read the last chapter if you have the time or the inclination ... I have tidied it up a bit and corrected the multiplicity of errors caused by my bad mood ;)**

 **I hope some more of you will forgive me for not including Lisbon in this story and give it a try. It isn't unsympathetic to her and she may well be encouraged to make an appearance in the final chapter.**

 **Anyhow I know you all probably hated reading A/Ns, so on with the show.**

* * *

Woody drained the last of his precious bourbon into his guest's now empty glass, squeezing the last drop and shaking it determinedly off the neck of the bottle, while Jane studied the golden liquid struggling to overcome the bounds of surface tension to fall and make a ripple in his tumbler. At last it fell and Jane sat quietly watching until the concentric circles stilled to become a tiny mirror. Then he picked up the glass and swilled it round and around, staring at it thoughtfully, while Woody got himself a beer from his little fridge.

"It's obvious you love her, Patrick," he observed, rooting in a draw for a bottle opener, "Why did you leave?"

Jane raised his blond head and tilted it, indicating the ledge over the hob, "It's there. Look, on the side, to your left," he advised, without expression.

Woody picked up the misplaced opener, prised the top from his bottle and came to sit down.

"That doesn't answer my question."

From opposite sides of the narrow table, two pairs of eyes locked; steady, unwavering, calm. One pair searching, analysing, waiting. The other cautious, guarded, tired.

"No. It doesn't."

"You agreed to talk. You agreed to let me help."

"Yeah, I did …" Jane swirled the drink in his glass repeatedly, faster and faster, daring it to reach the edge and spill over the top. Then he downed the whisky in one, placed the glass on the table with brisk finality and sat staring vacantly at it, "Why did I do that?"

"Because you _want_ to?" Woody asked gently. "Because you _need_ to?"

The man's smart, Jane thought. And persistent.

"Do I?" he shrugged, knowing full well he did both need and, surprisingly, want, but playing the stalling game anyway.

"Yeah, I think you do."

"OK." Jane smiled, wry but thin.

"So. Tell me then. Why are you running from this woman you love?"

The fragile smile disappeared and the face of a man prepared to lay his soul bare suddenly sat before Woody, eyes deep and open and childlike, slightly damp, occasionally blinking rapidly. Jane lay both arms on the table, fingers spread wide and with his body leant forward slightly and Woody sat back to listen.

"I'm scared Woody," the mentalist admitted with a voice that croaked with pain in its struggle to escape the constriction in his throat. "I'm batshit, uncontrollably, absolutely, bloody terrified to death," he wheezed. "And I can't figure a way out. "

Woody felt his own heart constrict in sympathy.

Abject fear was not the typical reason most folk gave to explain the break up of, or flight from a loving, caring, non violent relationship, or rather, it was not a reason the average man would readily admit to, so, although Patrick Jane was undeniably not an average man, his vehement declaration threw Woody for something of a loop.

He averted his eyes from the troubled man to give some breathing space, contemplating the possible cause.

This certainly was a curve ball, until, that is, he remembered something.

"Teresa's a cop?" he asked carefully, pausing for confirmation.

Patrick nodded silently.

"Dangerous sometimes?"

Again, a sad affirmation, just with those scared, haunted eyes.

"And you're afraid of history repeating itself, as it were."

"It's there every time I look at her."

And Patrick looked away to his hands, fingers trembling slightly on the table top.

Woody pondered again. "Yeah, I guess it would be. But you worked together for years, right? This can't be something you haven't had to deal with before,"

"Hmm," Jane fingered the wedding ring his wife had given him.

"Over a decade," he said, looking up and into Woody's patient gaze. "And I've always been afraid for her, tried to protect her, and believe me, for a coward that's not easy," he attempted another smile. "But …well, you would, wouldn't you. I mean any decent person would. Even me."

Woody made mental notes, but refrained from comment, merely nodding.

Jane continued. "But it got harder over the years, as we got closer, and things progressed with Red John," he shrugged, half angry, half bitter. "If you can call it progress."

He slid the empty whisky glass across the table, "I wonder if I could trouble you for a cup of tea? Whichever one. I really don't mind, the one with the valerian and chamomile was soothing," … _it'll stop my fingers from fidgeting._

Woody rose. "Sure. That's cool. Don't stop talking."

Jane sat in silence for a moment, glad of a breather, trying to divert his thoughts from running back to the even darker days again. He reached out for the empty whisky glass again and spun it around idly with the tips of his thumb and index finger, making himself concentrate on the mesmerizing motion.

"And after your two years away?" asked Woody over the sound of water hitting metal as he filled the kettle. "Didn't that help?"

Jane came back into himself with a sigh.

"It wasn't too bad when I first got back. To be honest I was so thrilled to be working with her, if you could call it that," he huffed at the memory of all the times he'd wanted to work with her and had been thwarted by Fischer or Lisbon herself or just circumstances. "It was all very distracting at the time, I didn't really know how to handle things, after so long apart. All very confusing. We had that misunderstanding I told you about, so I was too preoccupied trying to be careful, not to control her, not to be secretive, which for me, I can tell you, is practically impossible. I forgot to be scared for a bit, I guess. Then, just as it looked like she was starting to relax, and I was plucking up the courage to begin moving things on, I … well, I guess I took my eye off the ball."

"The other guy?"

A blue patterned mug appeared in front of Jane and Woody rejoined him with a new bottle of beer.

"Yup. The other guy," Jane did a double take and grinned for the first time in hours. "How d'you know about him?"

"You told me."

"Nope."

Woody took his turn to grin knowingly at the mentalist.

"Well anyway it was obvious. So all your attention was on him then?"

"Yeah. I don't mind admitting, I was a mess. Played the whole thing like a novice. Told myself lies about wanting her to be happy, told myself she'd be better off with him. Hell, I even ended up telling her the same things. Stupid thing is, all the time I really thought she'd come to her senses and choose me with out even being asked. Couldn't do it. Ask, I mean. Tried, several times."

Woody saw Jane shiver and grimace as the memory of his paralysing inability to confront his feelings sent a wave of anguish writhing through his body. He wrapped his hands around the mug and had a big slurp to ground himself.

"So you were afraid even then. Just not about the job."

"Terrified."

"But you got the gal in the end."

Another big, swelling, almost tearful grin appeared, brimming over with nostalgia and longing. "I did," he said proudly. "Jumped a fence and hijacked a plane to DC."

Woody downed half his beer in one big swig. "Whoa," he exclaimed. "I'm impressed."

"You don't wanna know the details. Believe me. It wasn't heroic. More of a farce really. Except for the kiss at the end."

Woody chuckled at this, aching to know the uncomfortably entertaining details, but restraining himself.

"OK then. Drink your tea and tell me what went wrong. You can spill that embarrassing stuff later."

Jane relaxed a bit and smiled to himself at the humiliating but fond memories of bemused travellers and being manhandled by indignant TSA officers. Even that long despairing night sitting in detention, with only his throbbing ankle to keep him company and the certain knowledge the Teresa was on route to DC, didn't seem so bad in retrospect. The humiliation had certainly been worthwhile at the time.

Woody studied him as Jane scrolled forward through those first few days of tentative but blissful discovery with Lisbon, and saw remembered affection and happiness flood his eyes with colour and soften the contours of his face.

"Those first few days were surreal," he enthused, more animated, more positive than he'd felt for days. "It was like a wonderful, scary, exhilarating fairground ride. I couldn't believe I'd been given permission to love again … or rather, given myself permission. Hardly knew how to deal with it. So we were taking it slow, just feeling our way, enjoying each other."

"The right way." Woody nodded sagely.

Jane took a breath and became solemn.

"Then the fish resurfaced."

"The other man?"

"Yeah, Pike. Asked if I had a plan. That was a bit of a wake up call. Brought me down to earth, because I didn't have a plan. And, of course, him calling me on that made me nervous."

He smiled ironically into the surface of what was left of his tea, "Hm, Teresa must have been amused at that … or perturbed … because I always have a plan. But, anyway, we decided to go without said plan, just do what felt right, which seemed the only sensible thing to do. She was good about that, very patient with me. Always has been."

"And things were fine after that, you didn't feel a need for stability?"

"Yeah, things were good at first, but Pike made me realise that things were different, that by telling Teresa I loved her, by asking her to change her life _again_ for me, I had taken on a new responsibility; and that, on its own, was a new and sobering challenge."

Woody shook his head a little, "Too right, people don't always consider the implications of those three little words. Toss 'em into the conversation like confetti. Then watch'em get swept away after the church bells stop peeling."

"Yeah, and I'd kept them mostly locked away for years, so that moment when I said it for real was hard won … the most terrifying and precious moment of my more recent life."

Tears welled unbidden in Jane's eyes again, as a fleeting thought of Angela surfaced and a pang of residual guilt prickled in his heart. He had to swallow hard before moving on.

"Then, before we'd really got settled, before we'd even come out to the team, our second case turned out to be a disaster. She went under cover. Not only was it our first time apart, and I found out that missing her had become even more intense than before I had any right to miss her, but things got dangerously out of hand. I blundered into a standoff, unarmed and without backup, thinking I could save her, with no plan other than to improvise. We both ended up staring down the barrel of a gun. We both could have died. But at least we'd have gone down together."

He sighed, a sigh so huge that it sent a shudder through his whole, tired body, but he shrugged it off and went on.

"And it brought back the fear with a vengeance. After that I began to get overly protective; snippy if I felt she was being threatened in even the slightest way. I think I may have become even more annoying than usual. And that was just about the little things. But I always would have kept her safe. Always told her so, so that was nothing new, but it never preyed on my mind too much, had always been a reflex … 'keep Lisbon safe … she's precious'. Never lost much more sleep than usual over it til then, but ever since it's coloured everything I do."

"Did you consider ways to control it?"

"Not at first. I figured I could find superficial ways to deal with it, as and when the need arose. You know: denial, self-control, breathing exercises, distraction. Things I'd been doing for years. Didn't work. But then, one night, I hadn't been well, felt a little spaced out, dreamy. We were lying there together, in the Silver Bucket, and I started daydreaming about leaving it all behind. I even said it out loud, suggested we leave the FBI, go travelling. It was only half thought out musings, but I have to admit her defensiveness was unexpected."

"She didn't want to leave her job."

"Exactly."

"Law enforcement … it's a vocation."

"Seems it's more than that to her," Jane's tone carried a hint of bitterness. "She just looked at me like I suggested something crazy and said 'It's who am Jane', then she left. I was too sleepy to worry about it at the time. But I have to say it did sting a bit … like maybe she felt she didn't have room for anything else. For _us_. Or maybe she was scared. _Of_ us."

"You didn't pressurise her?"

"Na, I floated the idea a few times over the next week or two. Didn't actually mention the leaving the FBI thing directly, just tried to make her see that there's a big, beautiful, world out there, waiting to be explored … and honestly it wasn't all about me being afraid; we deserve a life now after what we've both been through. But she kept on deflecting. Saw straight through me. Doesn't like boats, not into bee keeping blah, blah, blah…"

Woody looked puzzled. "This doesn't sound insoluble, I mean things were still cool between you."

"Oh, sure," Jane smiled fondly. "We never argued about it. I understood her position. She's afraid of change and she does live for her job. And maybe I could have lived with it given time, but we had a big case protecting a witness, knew there would be a hit. I did the planning, but that night I didn't sleep a wink. Hadn't been that sick with worry since Red John, couldn't shake off the gloom. She did her best to reassure me, but I could see she had no idea just how much it was getting to me. Why would she … like she said … being in danger … it's who she is."

He downed the last dregs of his cold tea with a sour groan, then breathed in deeply and pushed the air out again in a long, resigned huff, like he was blowing away his guilt. "So I pulled her out of the firing line at the last minute. Funny, it wasn't something I planned. I suppose I panicked in the heat of the moment and given the opportunity, of course … couldn't stop myself. Didn't regret it, still don't. Kinda hoped she wouldn't rumble me though."

"But she did?"

"Yeah, and she was furious. And when I admitted that I'd probably do it again … well, let's just say I thought my number was up. Things were chilly that night."

"Why do you think that case got to you so much? I mean cops are always in danger, right."

"It was one where we knew the risk was high. Mostly there's no time to think through the dangers. It was that, but more than that, it was the timing, now I come to think about it."

"Hmm, timing ... so something else happened? " Woody observed pensively, getting up and reaching for the denim jacket he'd discarded earlier.

Jane remained seated, deep in thought.

"Come on," Woody gestured at Jane to follow him. "I have a feeling this is gonna be a long night and I need a smoke and some fresh air. Yeah, I know that's nonsensical, but I don't light up in the van if the weather's good."

He picked up an old tobacco tin from over near the driver's seat and climbed out into the night, which was eerily quiet and sultry, but with a cloudless sky, dark now but lit by a glowing harvest moon.

Jane unfolded his legs and retrieved his own crumpled jacket, stretching his back and arms out as he struggled into it and negotiated the rickety steps to join him outside.

"You're still very welcome to join me, you know," Woody offered, turning round to Jane, who had trotted to catch him up as he wandered off to the other side of the road. He opened the ancient tin, whose vintage logo had worn away to reveal the shiny polished metal underneath and showed the contents. Inside were four small, neatly rolled joints.

"There're mostly regular tobacco, hardly any of the good stuff. It helps me wind down some nights. Bit of a throw back from the old days."

Jane immediately drew back and stared at the amiable face, with an element of disappointment.

"I told you," he said sharply. "I don't do drugs."

Then the corners of his mouth curved a little and his tone softened. "And it's highly unprofessional to be under the influence while counselling a patient," he paused to give Woody a moment to squirm and to allow his own smile to develop a fraction. "Wouldn't you say Doctor? … or did you blow town before you qualified?"

Once he'd got over the shock, the lapsed psychiatrist threw back his head and laughed heartily, slapping a now fully smiling Jane hard on the back.

"You really are something, aren't you Paddy boy," he roared in his crackling, smoke damaged voice. "You got me there though. How'd ya guess."

"Oh, just paying attention," Jane told him coolly, "The way you listen. The way you probe, knowing when to push and when not to. That, and the fact that I fascinate you so much. That and your disillusionment with life, with people, yet you still feel compelled to help me."

"And knowing that, you still want to talk to me? Woody asked. "A closed off person like yourself."

This elicited a wry smile from Jane who was feeling inexplicably more relaxed and actually found himself wanting to work through his problems. It was certainly true he'd never considered telling another soul how he felt about Lisbon's job and his fear for her … or any of the other stuff he'd already vouchsafed to this complex but likeable stranger, who it turned out, wasn't as enigmatic as he seemed.

"Well," he declared almost cheerfully. "I have time to spare and now that you've opened the flood gates … I think we can help each other."

The faux hippie, or was it faux shrink, snapped his baccy tin shut without disturbing the contents, slipped it into the back pocket of his saggy jeans and ran quickly across the highway to lock his van, then came back to join Jane who was now studying the vastness of the starry night sky with great intensity.

He stood, hands in pockets, observing the man studying the stars and wondered why love could not overcome his fear. Did his woman love her job more than she loved him? Did he fear that this was so? A why was his fear apparently stronger than his desire to be with her?

"Right then Patrick. Let's walk and talk some more. Tell me what was so bad about the timing. Hopefully we'll have us both back on track by sunup."

* * *

 **I hope you will take some time to let me know how you feel about this chapter, I know there's a lot of chat, but I just can't seem to stop them.**

 **Hopefully the final installment will be up sooner than this was and Jane will be on his way back to Lisbon.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow ... I really thought this would be a two chapter story, but I just can't finish it.**

 **I had written a lot more for this chapter, however it was going on too long, with no sight of a convenient break and much more to say before I launch into a short homecoming /epilogue chapter.**

 **I have struggled to keep this piece interesting... it's so hard to write a conversation between two men, set in one location. Especially when, by necessity the talk is very one sided.**

 **I apologise that this took so long to update, and for it's shortness ... but in the end I decided to cut the thing in half just to get something out.**

 **Hope it's not too disappointing.**

* * *

Woody turned on his heel, picked up the lamp and strode purposefully to the metal barrier that separated the narrow strip of sandy land beside the highway from a rougher area of scrub, rocky outcrops and scattered trees. About thirty metres beyond this, the land dropped sharply away in the darkness to the precipitous edge of a small ravine. He stepped over into the scrub and turned, beckoning Jane to follow, then started to pick his way cautiously toward a group of several largish jagged rocks that loomed shadowy in the moonlight, surrounded by smaller, smoother boulders.

As he drew close to the rocks, he turned again to see Jane; sitting, facing him and barely visible, but obviously deep in thought, on the roadside barrier.

"You gonna join me?" he yelled above the sudden rumble of a truck that growled past at speed, illuminating Jane's solitary figure in the glare of its headlamps and lighting up his tousled blond mop like a beacon.

Woody smiled. "I was having you on about those coyotes," he yelled again. "They don't bite."

He waited and two minutes later a slight figure scrambled through the gloom and, without a word, prepared to sit on a boulder next to him, peering suspiciously at the rocky surface and wiping bits of debris and dirt off with his hand before he lowered himself.

"Have you ever seen one?" Jane finally asked.

"Not yet."

"Then how do you know they don't bite?"

"Haven't been bitten yet."

"Fair enough,"

Jane rubbed his hands together, ostensibly to clean off the grime from the already dewy rock, but mostly out of nervousness. Then he crossed his legs, folded his arms loosely in his lap and waited for Woody to resume his gentle probing.

"What were you thinking about back there?" Woody asked finally. "Thought for a minute you were going to back out on our deal. You said you'd talk."

Jane turned with a look of resignation, "Yeah ... you weren't about to give up," he asserted. "I was preparing."

Woody examined his features carefully in the dim light before beginning.

"The bad timing … it wasn't bad in itself was it? He paused. "Something good happened."

"Yeah. About as good as it could get," Jane smiled.

It was one of those watery,wistful smiles, and his voice was low and overcome with nostalgia for a precious moment remembered.

"One of Teresa's brothers got into a poker game that turned into a murder. We traveled up to Chicago, where they grew up, to get him out of trouble. It was a bit of a revelation for me; seeing the old family home, her childhood, her old haunts, meeting her folks. Not her parents," he added hastily, as an afterthought. "They both died when she was in her teens."

Jane paused and swallowed and his expression turned sombre for a moment as he remembered.

"That week turned out to be a watershed in our relationship; she mended some fences with her brothers, I got a reminder of what family can be … even when it's broken … well particularly when it's been broken. A conventional family like that was something I never had as a child and I was still learning to build one as an adult … if … I mean … before …"

He broke off abruptly and Woody, noticing the telltale hesitation, interrupted immediately to steer the conversation back to the happy memory.

"There was something else, something else good that made the timing bad."

Jane lifted his head and turned his attention to the moon, so Woody couldn't see his face. He blinked hard.

"That weekend was the first time she told me she loved me … loves me," he explained hoarsely. "All those weeks, after I'd declared myself, I knew she did, love me that is, but she could never bring herself to say the words. Scared of the commitment I guess. But there, at that family christening the following Sunday, with all the people who love her, all the children … and all of them accepting me. Well, ... I think she saw us in a different light."

He swung around to meet Woody's expectant gaze with unashamedly tearful eyes.

"God, I was so happy … and surprised."

"Why surprised?"

"I suppose it made it real. Concrete."

"And that's where the bad timing fits in," Woody confirmed.

Jane's loud, protracted sigh was a cloud of misty melancholy as it floated between them in the cooling night air.

"Yeah … I didn't realise it at the time," he said slowly, exploring his feelings as he went. "I guess, up until then, I'd never felt like she was mine to lose. Not _really_ mine … I don't mean in the ownership sense .. in the sense of commitment … because, of course I was committed to her, I'd … _I'll_ always come back to her…" he rambled on quietly, looking down at his hands, fidgetting and blinking occasionally, as his thoughts coalesced into a stream of verbal diarrhoea. " … I know she doesn't think that though, or didn't … probably doesn't think I'm coming back this time …can't blame her really … don't have a good track record …" he shuddered to a halt, took a big breath and expelled it slowly, allowing his body to slump like a burst balloon.

"Still, at least I know she's sure she loves me," he decided at last looking up at Woody with a dismal little smile.

"And _are_ you going back?" Woody asked tentatively.

Jane's face transformed at once to an expression of shock that verged on indignation.

He sat up straight.

"Of _course_ I am," he confirmed vehemently. "I love her."

Woody didn't react, other than to give him a professionally bland look and sit back with his hands clasped, fingers intertwined. He then proceeded to sum up, in a way that made Jane think he should be talking into a dictaphone, or taking notes and he himself should be reclining on a shiny black faux leather couch.

"So," Woody said. "You love Teresa and you are now sure she loves you. But because of that you're unable to live with the fear of losing her and worried about the friction it's causing between you."

Jane nodded.

"Yeah. That's a fair summation."

"And all this came to a head with that big case you pulled her out of?"

Jane hung his head dejectedly, studying his hands yet again.

No," he admitted. "I could have handled that … with some work. I was trying. Not necessarily succeeding, but prepared to start trying. I was honest with her about it though. Told her I wasn't sure I wouldn't do it again."

His expression became grim. "But the fates conspired. Although ironically what happened next brought the whole thing to a head, which is good ... I suppose."

"The final nail in the coffin?" Woody asked innocently.

He watched as Jane's face gradually blanched, making it appear tinged with blue in the cool light of the moon.

The mentalist sat, suddenly rigid, fragile like an eggshell under a hammer and edgy, like a sprinter awaiting the sound of the starting pistol.

He sat, for a good minute and a half, before the spell broke and he glanced icily in Woody's direction, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"It's cold out here, and my backside's numb," he announced with an exaggerated shiver.

Then he pushed himself up from his rocky seat and started walking silently toward the parked vans.

Woody was momentarily stunned; he'd thought they were making slow but steady progress, working methodically through to an understanding which would help the poor man find a way home to his love. He'd already, instinctively come to the conclusion that it was where he was meant to be, but now it seemed he had managed to snag another open wound.

By the time he caught up with Jane, who was standing, hands in pockets, waiting at the door of the VW, Woody had figured out the terrible mistake he had made.

"I'm sorry man," he said, unlocking the door and standing aside politely. "Someone died, didn't they?"

"Yeah," Jane mumbled as he passed him and climbed inside without another word. He picked up the keys to his Airstream from where they lay on the bench seat, stared first at Woody, then at the open door, before unexpectedly he heaved a heavy sigh, shoved the keys in his pants pocket, turned around and slumped down at the table, head in his hands.

Woody breathed a sigh of relief. He had fully expected that his clumsy and, as it turned out, highly inappropriate attempt at levity, would see the troubled man fleeing to the security and privacy of his own vehicle.

As he stepped back outside into the dark to both collect his thoughts and to give Jane some much needed space, Woody considered his own behaviour.

A brief period of soul searching, in fact, just a minute or two, confirmed to him that too much time on his own was dulling his social skills and that, perhaps, his concept of professional ethics needed an overhaul. A few hours in the company of an interesting companion, had him interfering in the man's complicated life, opening up old wounds and blundering callously around in a world of pain that he could only imagine.

He wondered if he had been so crass in his past incarnation, as a so called 'professional'. If he had, it seemed that getting away from the difficult business of pontificating on other people's problems, to see the country, nurture their spirits and commune with nature, as Elizabeth had insisted when they were young, had been a very good thing. Certainly, if his skills and empathy had been poor then, he felt tonight had proved they obviously hadn't improved with time.

He and his gal had had a fine time on the road, and she'd seemed happy, so it seemed to him a fine irony that she had been the one to persuade him that they should return to the constraints of the nine to five and city life when Millie had reached school age. Although he couldn't deny his daughter's right to the benefits or otherwise of a conventional education. Anyway, he'd stuck it out til she graduated high school, when his feet got itchy and things got scratchy with Elizabeth. It turned out that _she_ was the one who'd become a pillar of society and a mover and shaker on the local school board. They still loved each other, but couldn't live the same life.

When Woody poked his grizzled head inside again Jane was sitting calmly, in the half light, playing with the worn ring on those magician's fingers that he had been so captivated by earlier. The sadness pervading the atmosphere in the van was almost palpable in its intensity. He didn't say anything or move until Woody sat down opposite, so they were face to face.

What Woody saw was raw, naked and hopeless.

"I'm sorry. I should never have interfered," he apologised. "It's none of my business. I guess being on the road makes you nosy, given a bit of company."

Jane stopped spinning his ring, gave it a fond lingering look, stretched his back out and ran both hands deliberately through his scruffy golden curls.

"You know," he said, with what Woody read as relief. "It's okay. It's probably a good thing. I haven't been good at talking, so it's time I did." He shrugged diffidently. "Anyway, it's not as if we'll ever meet again, don't suppose."

"Still, I shouldn't have pushed," Woody declared, desperately stalling while he tried to figure out his next move.

Jane pre-empted him by getting up quickly and moving to the door.

"I think I have a couple of beers," he said casually. "We may as well finish what we started, don't you think?"

He flashed Woody a half enquiring, half assumptive glance. "You don't have anything more pressing on your agenda, do you?"

In an instant he had disappeared into the now inky night, for the moon was sulking in sympathy behind a mass of cloud, leaving Woody wondering whether this was the man's artful get out plan; leaving him with no chance to protest and nothing to do but listen to the opening and closing of the Silver Bucket's door. Nevertheless, the shrewd hippie's best bet was that, true to his word, his new friend Patrick would be back.

The Airstream felt somehow alien. Once a cosy haven, a reminder that tethered him to who he was, or had been, in those long hot summer days of his early childhood, days filled with noise, laughter and the smell of his mother's cooking, was now chilly, dark and foreboding. Even the subtle glow cast by the light Jane flicked on as he entered gave no warmth and failed to penetrate the far reaches of the van; the end to which he was inexorably drawn.

As he searched his little larder for something to eat, he tried but failed to ignore the bed, half hidden in the gloom. He tried not to look at the body shaped indentation, half disguised by a crumpled blanket, where he had done his best to catch some sleep during his night on the road.

He'd only made the effort because he'd scared himself half to death by almost driving into a ditch in his exhaustion. Ironic, really, considering how often in his life he hadn't given a damn whether he lived or died.

The indentation looked hollow and cold.

About as hollow as his heart felt right now.

The pillow on his side of the bed was awkwardly folded in half, where he'd pummeled it into submission in a vain attempt to find comfort. Beside it lay the crisp, uncrumpled pillow where Lisbon's beautiful head should have rested.

If any scene could paint a picture of his loneliness, this was it, he thought.

It hurt. So he tried not to think.

Having found what he was looking for he shoved a few bits and pieces in his pockets and opened the fridge to search out some drinks. As he turned, his eye was caught by the moonlight reflecting off the shiny screen of his cell phone, sitting on the passenger seat where he'd left it. The urge to pick it up was compelling, yet he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He knew there would be missed calls and he knew who they would be from; he'd missed one already, that he knew of. He was ashamed that he'd been both guilty but also undeniably relieved when his phone had started to squirm in his pocket, and he'd been unable to answer it as he'd been busy taking a leak in the grubby diner where he'd stopped for that cardboard breakfast. His subconscious had contrived to make his normally nimble fingers fumble horribly with his pant zipper until the squirming stopped and he hadn't been able to pluck up the courage to even look to see who called.

It wasn't the he didn't want to talk to her.

Honestly it wasn't.

In fact it was breaking his heart not to be able to hear her voice. Wouldn't have mattered if she'd been whispering sweet nothings, or screaming blue murder at him.

He just really wanted to hear her.

The trouble was he had no idea what he was going to say, except that he was sure, as sure as the day is long, that whatever he said to her would be the wrong thing.

And not knowing what to say was not something he was very accustomed to, until he came back from the island and he became unsure of where he stood with her.

Still he'd felt it was better to say nothing, than to say something that he hadn't thought through.

So now the damn cell sat there taunting him for being a coward and he was behaving like it was his worst enemy on the other end, not the love of his life. The probability was that if it had been his worst enemy, he would have picked up; just for the challenge.

He studiously ignored it anyway, shook himself down, gathered up his beers, tried to muster up some optimism and left the thing to sit there on it's own. Shining in the dark of the Airstream.

* * *

 **So there you have it ... not much progress, but Jane's story is a long one I guess, and his problems many. I think it would have been better as one long chapter ... but that was never gonna happen.**

 **I'll try to update more quickly next time, but bear with me please ...**

 **I usually don't ask for reviews, but some feedback would be very much appreciated.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Firstly no long author's notes this time, except to say thank you to all my faithful reviewers. I can't even remember if I pm'd you all back, but please know that your support is precious.**

 **Hopefully this is the penultimate chapter of Jane's marathon heart to heart with Woody.**

 **Enjoy... and if you're a new reader, welcome. Let me know what you think.**

* * *

Woody sat quietly on his own in his van and within minutes, the sound of smooth leather soles bounding across the dirt heralded the return of the mentalist.

Jane put four brown bottles on the drainer by the little sink and threw an assortment of plastic bags on the table.

"Pecans, dried apricots," he declared. " … and those," he indicated with a long pointer finger, to a generously proportioned evidence bag full of in the shell nuts. " … are best quality organic peanuts. I scrounged a life time supply from a job we did down on the Mexican border."

"Cool," said Woody as he searched Jane's carefully emotionless countenance, trying to get a vibe for his state of mind. "Mind if I put some music on?" he asked. "Classical okay?"

Jane managed an indifferent shrug. "Long as it's not Bach or Beethoven."

"Debussy then, and Satie."

"Not exactly Woodstock … ," Jane smiled wryly. " I'm impressed."

He sat himself down in his old position on the bench seat in front of the table and feigned a relaxed air by slumping slightly and resting one arm along the back of the seat.

"Music's music Patrick. And good music speaks to the soul, wouldn't ya say?"

"If the soul's ready to listen," came a whisper of jaundiced cynicism that wasn't intended to dent Woody's well intentioned efforts but did anyway.

But Woody carried on regardless, fishing around at the front of the van and slipping a cassette from an unlabelled case into a battered machine that hung from two hooks under one of the many little shelves that had been added to the VW's interior over the years.

Soon soft piano music filled the exotic little camper van and within minutes it was indeed having the desired effect.

"So. Did she call you?" Woody enquired with a modicum of circumspection as he came to sit down. "I figured that's what took you so long. Checking your phone."

Jane already had his eyes closed and was reluctantly luxuriating in the hypnotic first notes of Gymnopedie No.1. He didn't respond to Woody's speculation immediately, but when he eventually opened his eyes they were damp and sad again.

Woody wasn't certain it wasn't the music; when _he_ was in the mood it was certainly a piece that could wrench a tear from his eye.

After a bit, Jane responded quietly. "I didn't pick up, didn't look," he admitted. "Bastard that I am."

He looked at Woody a little helplessly and expelled a long quivering sigh. "But I know I missed a call this morning. I'm sure it's not the only one."

Woody got up again, almost before his bony backside had touched down. He reached for two beers and levered off the caps, sliding one over sit in front of Jane and taking a quick swig from his own. Then he found a couple of rustically decorated bowls, emptied Jane's fruity offering into one, put the pecans in the other and left the peanuts in the plastic bag.

"So why didn't you call her back?" he asked as he resumed his seat.

"I … I didn't want to make things worse than they already are," Jane explained simply.

Woody's shaggy brows arched a little, a hovering question. "Are things really that bad? I mean, I thought she knew you were struggling."

Jane shrugged and responded blandly.

"I left her standing at a funeral. I wouldn't expect her to feel good about that."

Woody's brow dropped to disappointment.

"You didn't talk before you left?"

Jane confirmed Woody's supposition with a slight shake of his head and stared ruefully at the drops of condensation collecting on the cold glass of his beer bottle.

"It didn't seem like the time or the place; inappropriate. I just blurted it out. I did ask her to come with, though. Didn't pressure. She doesn't like that." His finger cleared a snaking path down the dewy cloud on the bottle as he remembered. "But I didn't give her much time to think it over, so I shouldn't be surprised she didn't come."

"Big decision."

"Yeah …"

"You leave straight away?"

"I couldn't stay. Not a minute longer."

"Too many reminders?"

Jane's face betrayed mild surprise at Woody's assumption, and at his own reaction.

"Of the past?" he sought confirmation, then he slowly came to a realisation, feeling guilt he hadn't felt at the time. He recognised another, albeit painful step in moving on. "No… no, not of the past. At least not in the way you might think," he confessed.

Not of Angela. Not of Charlotte.

"Of what the future could hold?"

"Yeah. Visions of Teresa," he spoke quietly, deliberately, through the remembered images of that grey day, with its ritual introduction to grieving and its ceremonial goodbyes.

"I looked at that coffin, Michelle's coffin, all dead and disguised under the flag, and all I could think of was that it could have been Teresa. Hell, it might as well have been her, the way it felt. I just about broke down there and then. Managed to keep it pretty well hidden, one of my many talents you know. Don't let them see the real you."

He grimaced and his fists clenched. "I mean, what sort of man goes to mourn a beautiful, innocent girl, a girl with so much potential, so much life to live, and stands there blubbering because of what might have been. Panicking cos it's not the wrong body in the box."

He raised his clenched fists, let them unfurl slowly and spread both hands down on the table, fingers stretched wide and taught, and he stared at them accusingly. Then he turned them over, palms up, flexing supple fingers and tracing his life on one hand with the fingers of the other, as if he would find the answers he sought in the lines he saw.

"God, what a screw up I am."

Woody stuffed a few nuts in his mouth and started shelling another, but remained the silent observer until Jane continued.

"I stood there looking at that wall of strong people; military, cops, people stronger than me, row upon row of them, standing there like soldiers; and I realised I'm not one of them … not brave, not fearless, not able to accept whatever fate brings. I'm not one of the good guys … although I try to be these days. Never will be though … but she is. Lisbon is. Lisbon's one of them, through and through. She doesn't need me."

"Oh, I don't suppose that's true," Woody told him, but didn't give Jane time to challenge. "Did you ever think about why she's one of them?"

"She's a cop."

"Yes, but why's she a cop?"

Jane almost spat the words, although they didn't sound venomous, just hurt. "It's who she is," he said. "She told me so."

Then the pain left his voice as quickly as the words spilled out and he spoke more softly. Affectionately.

"I know what she means though, she's lived for that job for years, much longer than I've known her. Since she was a girl. But she accused me … no, asked if I was jealous of it, and that isn't the way it is, not at all. That job's made her the woman she is, she'd be lost without it. And I know that."

"So how do you really feel about her job then? If you're not jealous."

Jane raked his hair and blew steamy breath into to air while he considered what he honestly felt about Lisbon's job.

"I guess it's the difference between jealousy and envy. Not that I approve of either. It's just that I wish I had what she's got. If I disappear, for whatever reason, she'll miss me a lot, for a bit, but she'll fill whatever void I leave with her job."

Woody nodded as if to prompt. " And …"

"And …. if I lose her, all I have is a great big chasm to dive into. So, well I try my best not to think about it,"

Jane's faced took on an expression that wavered between distress and disgust. "That's another thing that doesn't work," he mumbled.

He downed the remaining half of his drink and sat back, hands clasped behind his head, face once more smoothed into neutral, eyes tensely closed but again posing as relaxed, and he tried to make it work. He tried to clear his mind of everything save the mellifluous strains of The Girl with the Flaxen Hair, now floating in glorious soothing waves of sound from the ancient cassette player.

Woody waited a bit, hoping Jane would find the way to expressing more of his carefully guarded thoughts unbidden and willingly. He occupied himself temporarily by eating more peanuts and the remaining apricots, all of which Jane had made no move to touch, then he scraped together the discarded shells on the formica table top and threw them noisily into the tin can that was serving as a bin. They rewarded him with a satisfying series of irritating clinks and clatters. He figured three or four minutes was enough stewing time for anyone, and didn't intend to let those painful thoughts stay locked up behind that blanked off face much longer; not now, when he was beginning to see through to a path that was blindingly obvious. No matter how much blustering and ignoring he might be met with.

Jane didn't respond to the distractions he knew were a hint that he wasn't going to be given permission to close down the lines of communication, but Woody saw the twitch of lids over restless eyes, watched as lips tightened with steadfast resistance. He got up with a jerk and a scrape of his chair and moved the bin away, trying to force Jane's attention onto him as he spoke, and when he addressed Jane it was with a calculated tone of resignation and with deliberate slowness.

"It would do you more good to talk about it, you know," he said. "I know it seems like all we've done tonight is talk about talking, but too much internalising twists the threads of the clearest thoughts into knots. Even the good thoughts can start turning bad if you give them too much time mixing with the bad ones. And it's no good locking the bad thoughts behind closed doors in that damned memory palace of yours. 'Cause there ain't no key to throw away."

That got Jane's attention.

He said nothing, quelling his irritation and doing his utmost to disguise it under a carefully controlled lowering of his arms and a languorous licking of his lips.

He took the first sip of the fresh beer that had miraculously appeared before him.

"Oh yeah," said Woody. "I figure you've got one of those clever ways to keep you one step ahead; a fancy mental filing cabinet, with all the bells and whistles. But hiding stuff away in that overcrowded head of yours is no solution. The demons'll always find a way to haunt you," he smiled knowingly. "Besides, you know what they say, that old cliché, a problem shared and all that ….. it's true … and it would better shared with her."

Jane leaned forward, his eyes now wide and intense, confronting what he perceived to be Woody's all too simplistic advice.

"You think I don't know that? You think I haven't thought about that? Yeah, we had a few goes at the talking thing. She has appalling timing,"

He thought back to the times they'd started to attempt to air their issues. Those first few times when he'd gently raised the suggestion that there was a life beyond law enforcement had been met with mostly light-hearted deflection and by the time his fear had really started ramping up, for some reason it seemed to be she who had raised the subject; probably because he knew he would be on the back foot, so he'd sort of given up. He knew by then she was already becoming entrenched in her defence of her job, and he was beginning to feel she had no real understanding of his anxiety. The tiny crack that he'd opened between them that night on his bed in the airstream, him under the covers and her outside, was opening to a gulf.

He tried to explain to Woody. "I'm just getting around to finding a way to convince her what a weakling I am, and we have to find a solution, because I'm going to go crazy and do something stupid and she cuts me off with a patronising platitude. Every single time."

He waved his hands to illustrate multiple excuses. "You know the sort of thing … anything could happen, it'll be alright, I'm a cop … I can look after my self."

He then threw his arms out in a gesture of wild frustration and attempted a laugh.

It came out like a strangled cat.

"Hah! Her best one was, and I quote 'you can't keep pulling me from the path of oncoming trains … there's always another one coming' … or some such nonsense. That's exactly what I'm worried about. They keep on coming. Except it's guns, for god's sake. Not trains. Little more difficult to dodge and not so easy to hear them coming. "

Jane pinned Woody with laser like eyes and asked him.

"What good's all that reassurance if she's the one in the coffin, Woody? You answer me that. How do I go on if she's dead? Croaked. Six feet under. Pushing up daisies. Sitting up on some fluffy white cloud, having tea and biscuits with Angie and Charlotte. How am I supposed to carry on then?

Woody forced himself to maintain steady contact with Jane's pain filled eyes as they gradually became awash with unshed tears that he batted away with a single determined blink.

"I've done it once," he said very quietly. "And I don't know if I have the strength to do it again."

Woody studied Jane carefully, undeterred by the emotion threatening to trickle from between the man's lashes.

"You're not angry with Teresa, are you Patrick?"

Jane blinked again and swallowed.

"No. No, not at all. I'm frustrated and worried. Because it's all got so out of hand. I walked into a hostage situation, so that she wouldn't have to, which is stupid because it's just turning the tables after all. It makes sense that she goes in, she has the vest and the gun, the plan and the back up, and it's her job … but I couldn't help myself. And I'd do it again. I'll get myself killed or I'll alienate her. Because I can't lose her. I don't know how I'd react and it terrifies me."

"Have you considered how you might react? Is that what really scares you … what you might do, rather than the actual loss?"

"I think about it all the time. The fact that I didn't cope … at all."

"After your wife and child?"

No answer.

"What happened?"

Jane sighed sadly. "Months in a white room, behind a locked door, drugged up to the eye balls and suicidal. That's what happened, my friend. I kind of gave up for a bit and someone found me lying senseless on the beach one day. The rest is a bit of a blur."

Woody was a little shocked by this revelation, but not overly surprised when he gave it some thought.

He kept his face impassive and his immediate thoughts to himself.

The impression he had already formed of his unusual guest, was one of a complex, multi layered man, but a man who _usually_ kept the many facets of his personality under strict control; showing only what he wanted to be seen. He saw a man of unusually creative intelligence, awareness and sensitivity, a strong and determined man, but one whose emotions ran deep and powerful, informed by a strong sense of right and wrong that had fought it's way through a mire of immoral influence and instability in his childhood. It had developed in him a single-minded determination to better himself and a fierce drive to provide for and protect those he loved, by whatever means he could. But a drive that he felt had failed him, had failed his family.

It was no wonder his extreme guilt over his wife and daughter's deaths had made him crumble, when Red John had taken away the perfectly controlled and perfectly beautiful life he'd built, with the two people in the world he loved and who loved him. A life they'd made together, away from the domineering influence of his father; the man who'd set him on the path to a lifestyle that he would come to regret for the rest of his life; a lifestyle he struggled everyday to put behind him.

Estranged from his father, his mother little more than a distant sunny memory and his roots in the carnival mostly long abandoned, the serial killer had taken away the only family he still had.

His guilt and subsequent breakdown had robbed him of the only career he knew; the dubious path his father had set him on, but one he couldn't, in all conscience, carry on walking anyway.

These things had left him with no life to speak of, only the gaping chasm of which he spoke, filled with nothing but a burning desire to avenge his family.

Then, after a tumultuous decade, on that fateful sunny day in a Sacramento park, his revenge had become reality, and without his obsession with Red John to fill it, the chasm had become a seemingly bottomless pit that he was still, even now, trying to climb out of. Naturally, he feared he would fall back into it if he lost the one person who could fill the pit or stop him from falling over the edge.

During those two sun filled years in exile, he'd found a way to partially fill the void with the rosy glow of hope and the distraction of writing letters to Teresa.

Now, after the protracted struggle with himself, his guilt, his doubt and fear, and the obstacles that seemed to keep lining up to stand in his path, he had finally found his love, and it was clear to see that, in his eyes, if he lost her, there would _be_ no more hope. At the bottom of the pit was the prospect of another white room or something still worse.

Woody wondered if Teresa even knew the truth of her lover's psychological history or understood just how little he had, or felt he had, without her.

"Patrick," he asked. "Teresa does know about your breakdown?"

"It came up, once or twice, in passing, yeah," Jane said, not intending to expand on the subject.

"You never really talked about it … in all those ten years."

Jane's brows knitted. He felt affronted that anyone might have expected him to air his dirty linen in public. Even to the woman he was now in love with. He avoided answering by fiddling distractedly with the buttons of his shirt cuffs, while he thought back to those difficult times; times when circumstances had conveniently saved him from having to confront a subject he even now found embarrassing.

"The time was never right," he finally explained. "It didn't come up until we got a case that involved my ex psychiatrist."

"Wouldn't that have been the perfect time?"

Jane blustered, still deeply ashamed. "I did have to come clean, just to clear up my connection to the woman, for the case …" he said quickly, "We got interrupted. Why would I bring it up again. It's not something I'm proud of … one of many, many things actually."

Woody decided not to push too hard on a door that was obviously creaky, but still stubbornly holding back an ocean of pain. He figured a different tack might yield more insight into a relationship that was obviously burdened with unexplored neuroses and long concealed secrets. He looked hard at the damaged goods that were Patrick Jane, then closed his eyes and took a moment. He thanked the Lord that he was Woody Rubenstein, not the troubled but intriguing conundrum sharing the comfort of his beloved Betty tonight.

Suddenly he was aware of two misty grey green eyes searching his face.

"She saw me when I was pretty low though," Jane confided, seeming quite comfortable, like he'd been remembering happier thoughts. "I rolled into her office a month or two after I convinced Dr. Miller I was sane, which wasn't easy I can tell you," he almost chuckled, recalling how hard he'd tried to make his messed up mind behave itself so he could get out of that place and begin his quest. How he'd strived to appear normal.

"I'd been looking into Red John, using internet cafes and public libraries for weeks but it was soul destroying and I was well on the way back down; stopped taking the meds, not sleeping, not eating, hiding in corners, sleeping rough, etcetera, etcetera," he raised a shy grin and gesticulated his multiple symptoms with dancing hands. "Then it dawned on me … which proves I was well out of it, because it was the first thing I should have done … the best way to find him … straight to the best source of information."

"The cops."

"Yeah," he said triumphantly. "And there she was; all sturdy boots and sassy walk. Although, I didn't notice that till later."

"And she took you under her wing."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that. Not at first. Actually, she kinda gave me a kick up the ass, said I looked like a homeless person … which I guess I did. Would have been understandable, there being only those two little words in my head at the time. And they weren't bathrooms and laundromats."

"What made you listen to her?"

"Well … maybe it was the way she smiled at me when she told me off, all the time trying to hide it behind her ferocity … that and she had the Red John files. But I soon got the impression she saw something left in me worth fighting for, even if I didn't. She's a sucker for lost causes, you know, even now."

Woody gave Jane a supportive smile. "And are you a lost cause Paddy?"

Jane scratched his head, "What do you think?" he asked, "Because I thought everything was looking up, turning to the bright side, until this fear thing started rearing it's ugly head again."

"Oh, I think we can fix you. You and I. There's one more thing I want to know."

"What's that?"

"Why didn't you tell her exactly what you were afraid would happen if you lost her?"

Jane laughed. "I told you Woody, she has terrible timing."

Woody covered his mouth to stifle a yawn.

"Well, you'd best get a wriggle on and tell me, because, now I come to think of it I have another question and I don't know about you, but I'm bushed."

Jane glanced at the watch he'd started wearing just before the Red John confrontation. He'd worn it to be sure not to miss his appointment with his nemesis.

Two thirty.

He'd been pouring out his life story, in all its tragic detail, to a complete stranger for almost ten hours, off and on. The only person he'd ever spent that long talking to in one session must have been Sophie … or it might have been, since his memory of those talks was sketchy at best. _Never talked to Lisbon that long … maybe not even Angie … not in one go…_

"Okay. You got me. I'll wriggle," he gave a weary grin of sorts, realising he too was exhausted; running on the dwindling dregs of cardboard breakfasts, Woody's ham and eggs, faint threads of hope and short bursts of adrenaline.

He thought back to the night of Abbott's leaving party.

"It was the last time she pushed me to talk about it and I told her I didn't know how I'd react, but she didn't pick up on it. I was just about finding the courage to tell her how bad it really was, but she had to go and pick a damned party. I just couldn't, I mean who admits they're afraid of ending up in a pysch ward or blowing their brains out at a workplace celebration. I chickened out. Maybe it was good manners. Maybe my subconscious stopped me. But I let her persuade me that everything would be fine, that we'd be strong together and everything was great. And I tried to be cheerful, I really did. In fact it turned out to be a great night. We danced, in front of the team, like she was okay with us being together in public, and for that one night I felt connected, like maybe it could be alright."

The music from the ancient cassette machine had run its course, and the van was bathed in the quietness of night time. But as Jane sat, recalling the warm buzz of that Texas evening, the smell from the Taco stand, the twinkling pastel glow from the hanging lanterns, the chatter of the colleagues he was at last coming to admit were real friends, he found himself back on the dance floor, could hear the bouncy music of the live band.

When Teresa asked him to dance it had surprised him, even though he knew it was her way to drag him out of his melancholy, but still, it was a joy to him when she acted against character and did something spontaneous. He'd been amused at the thought that he was rubbing off on her. He'd even fallen back into their easy teasing banter as they'd taken to the floor hand in hand, starting with a conventional hold, work partners celebrating, swinging and twirling happily like the rest of the team. She had promised him two dances, but it soon turned into more, and by the second bar of the first slow song his arms had slipped down to enclose her waist and her head had found it's warm resting place on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. They had felt comfortable. Dancing like lovers. As a couple.

It had been a wonderful night.

Then Michelle had died.

And the dam that had been valiantly holding back his fear had finally broken.

Jane felt the heaviness of his situation weighing down on him in the silence that had been calming, but suddenly became oppressive. It snapped him out of his reverie with a sharpness that startled the wits out of Woody, who was just barely managing to stay awake.

"So," he snapped. "One more thing you said?"

Woody opened his mouth slowly, ready to speak, but was cut off by a raised palm.

"I've been doing all the talking," Jane continued. "And frankly, cathartic though it's been, I'm worn out. I know what you want me to tell you. You want to know why I think Teresa's a cop, why she's so brave and why she coped with her tragedy so much better than me? I know the answers, but I don't see how it solves anything. So why don't you tell me what you think. It'll help you stay awake, while I have a little rest."

Woody was slightly affronted by Jane's acerbic tone, but attributed it to the weariness that was starting to drag down the contours of his face and making his skin dull and grey. The hippy took a positive approach; didn't let Jane's mood bother him. Just a few more minutes and he would send his patient back to the confines of his Airstream, which he supposed probably felt like purgatory with all it's reminders of his woman. He felt bad about that, but really, Betty didn't have the space to accommodate two grown men, both used to their own space, potentially restless and almost certainly snoring.

Besides he had some serious thinking to do before daybreak. If he _could_ stay awake.

"Sure, why not," he answered evenly, checking to see if the mentalist was actually listening, or even still conscious. He found him to be drawn and tiredly tense, but alert.

"You're right," he said, "although I wouldn't have put it quite that way. It is obvious, though. Unlike you, she had no choice other than to be strong. When her mother died she was strong for her little brothers because her father couldn't be, she took on the role of mother, and in many ways that was a comfort, it kept her mother alive for her. Of course that need to look after her brothers only grew stronger when her father died, she must have felt angry that he'd deserted them, but she still had her brothers so she threw that anger into determination to be there for them. She only grew stronger. Of course she didn't have much time to spend on grieving and being sad, and when she did she had her faith. She had always been destined to be a carer, with her religious upbringing, her mother a nurse, her father a fire fighter, and naturally with a male oriented family life for so many years, it made sense for her to become a cop. _The_ traditional male caring environment and a way to work out her anger over the injustice of both her parents' deaths."

Woody stopped for a breath while Jane just stared at him with glazed eyes.

"So now she's a member of a family full of people like her, she has to be responsible for her team, her family, and she has the security of knowing they have her back too. She gets to go on giving surrounded by a family that will always be there, even though its members might come and go. She feels safe, it's natural she wouldn't want to give that up."

Jane felt a wave of absolute despair wash over him as what he already knew in his heart was spelled out to him in cold hard words. Teresa's job was her life, if not who she was. It was the result of the investment of years of her life that he felt he could not hope to emulate. It _was_ her safety net. And _he_ had none.

"That's not healthy Woody," he said hopelessly.

Woody sighed. He understood, and as he rose slowly to clear up their empty bottles, a wicked smile spread across his face.

"I know Patrick. It's far from healthy. If that's all she has. Now we need to get some shuteye. Get yourself back to that silver bucket of yours, so I can have my bedtime smoke and do some cogitating. We'll catch up in the morning."

Half an hour later Jane was still where he had been for the last twenty minutes. Sitting on the steps of the Airstream, sipping a cup of proper tea and staring at the stars.

* * *

 **So, no solution yet, but next chapter should see Woody coming up with some advice, Jane finding his way back home to Lisbon, and a short epilogue.**

 **Hope you didn't find it all too depressing ...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow, I'm so sorry for the delay, bet you all thought I'd give up. This one is a mammoth, was an absolute bear to write, but I suspect that was my own fault. I'm not too happy with it but hey, you be the judge.**

 **The response to the last chapter was phenomenal, thank you all so much, although there was one interesting comment from someone who completely misunderstood what I was trying to say in one particular instance. Must try to be clearer.**

 **So here goes... ... enjoy!**

* * *

The chill in the air was on the icy side of bracing and he'd left his suit jacket in a crumpled heap in the back of Woody's cosy camper, but Jane hardly noticed the cold that was making the hairs stand proud of the goose pimples on his arms. He finally thought to roll down his shirtsleeves and button them snugly around his wrists; then he picked up the cup of hot strong tea and cuddled it safely, with both hands, to his chest. The warmth of the cup made his freezing palms sting.

He'd been sitting on the steps in the open doorway of the Airstream for over an hour since leaving Woody's company and felt no inclination to move, except to refill his cup, even though he was so sleepy he could barely function. He'd brewed his tea on autopilot, but that was something he did most days; the only facet of his ritual that required any attention being the choosing of the blend. The stock he carried in his mobile home was, as a matter of necessity, limited to just a few selected favourites, but even so, tonight, or rather, this morning, he'd just grabbed the first that came to hand. By chance it was a Ceylon blend, dark, rich and fortifying, with a softness that seemed to envelope him in a warm hug. Coincidence or a subconscious choice; it didn't matter a fig tonight.

Alone in the dark, Jane felt a surreal calm.

Once the tea had worked its magic, he let his mind float aimlessly and his eyes roam around the inky sky, following scrappy clumps of nebulous cloud as they scudded like little grey phantoms across endless miles of indigo velvet, hurried along by a teasing north wind that had blown in during the night. It was otherwise quite clear, so when the moon was briefly blotted out by a puckish cloud, if he concentrated hard and squinted in the dark there were a few feeble but still twinkling stars. They contrived unwittingly to make him forget for a while as he focused on their beauty. Almost invisible, yet so impossibly powerful.

The only sounds he was aware of were the occasionally disconcerting skitterings of small nocturnal wildlife. Jane smiled to himself, thinking that they reminded him of the multitude of negative thoughts that rushed frantically back and forth in his mind these days, as they had done throughout all the most taxing periods of his life.

Tonight was different though. He had come very close to baring his soul to Woody, or, on reflection, perhaps he had actually achieved it. It had been painful but cathartic, and as he sat there, soaking in the nothingness, for a few precious minutes, maybe hours with a bit of luck, the world seemed to have turned inside out … his worries free to skitter in the dark and inside his head was blessed peace.

At first when he'd realised his only piece of outdoor clothing was still in the van he had considered going to retrieve it. There was still a faint warm light visible between the folds of the makeshift curtains that fluttered at the slightly open window and he could detect a faint whiff of cannabis wafting on the breeze when a sudden gust carried it his way. Woody was still awake and indulging in his own solitary ritual.

It would have been awkward to interrupt though; having said goodnight, so the jacket stayed where it was, and Jane sat shivering with his third cup of tea. He let the night wash over him until the moon started to slide gradually behind the shadowy trees on the other side of the highway and the stars began to give up their meagre light to the inevitability of the approaching day.

At some point, a while before dawn began to break, an image of the friendly hippy came to mind, already logged in his memory palace; Betty parked in line with the vehicles of a few former carnie acquaintances, in a prime position next to Pete and Sam's big silver trailer. It was rare indeed, to find a man who could claim a place so swiftly among those he remembered with fondness, but Woody was one of those men.

So Jane turned his thoughts to this unusual man who had dragged him, kicking and screaming, out of his stupor tonight, had made him face his troubles head on and examine his past and probably more importantly the present, with a modicom of objectivity.

Jane could honestly admit he was far from being in possession of a solution, if there was one, but even so, tonight he was beginning to feel lighter and more optimistic about the moving forward, which was after all paramount; the future being something he'd always had trouble confronting, since he'd spent so many years telling himself he didn't deserve one.

He'd spent many lonely nights drowning in tumultuous thoughts of his past, but only ever in snapshots. Tonight though, Woody had led him carefully through the time line of his troubles and right up to the present. All his ducks now sat in a row. And he could see them clearly. With Woody's help to spur him on, perhaps he could determine which parts of the past to keep and cherish, and which to banish, as best he could, from his memory palace. He accepted that he would forever continue to reflect on those dark days whenever his mood turned to melancholy, but now it was time to find a clearer path to happiness.

At the moment there was only one path he wanted to follow; the one where he and Teresa walked happily together hand in hand with the past not forgotten … never forgotten … but put firmly in its place.

He just wanted them to be happy.

 _Happy_ ... ... he mused.

That word made him recall with dismay those horrible days when all he'd been able to say to Teresa was 'I just want you to be happy', when in reality his heart was crying out to him to say 'I want _us_ to be happy'.

 _Us ..._

One little word's difference. But his tongue had been disobedient for so long, and all he'd managed to do was make them both miserable.

Now he wondered if Woody was happy.

Certainly, the man seemed to be content, wandering from coast to coast, living frugally on slim pickings and dwindling savings, buoyed up by memories of truly happy times. But was his apparent contentment really nothing more than complacency and fear? Was he only living in the past?

The evidence was clear; his home was nothing more or less than a colourful shrine to the dream that didn't last. The essence of the soul mate with whom he'd embarked upon his romantic adventure pervaded every nook and cranny, every threadbare furnishing, every weather beaten, sun bleached inch of the colourful paintwork of their jolly dream machine. It was in the warm atmosphere of humanity and nostalgia that filled the air, in the melodies of the music he listened to and in the very way he moved around the van. Most of all it was in his charming frankness and compassion and in the soft crinkles around his dewy eyes when he spoke of her.

Elizabeth still lived with Woody. He hadn't moved on; he simply didn't acknowledge it.

Sitting there on the Airstream steps in the dead of night, Jane hoped, with a stinging pang of irony, that one day, _he_ would.

* * *

Some time later; long after the final timid star had vanished, and the thready cloud had almost dissolved away to form a thin band of dawn tinted blush hovering on the horizon, Jane became aware of a cold dampness seeping through his trouser leg.

The hand that held his half full cup, dangling from the tips of its lifeless fingers, instantly jerked with reflexive life. Jane groaned. He yawned, groaned again and wiped at his tea soaked pants, then rose without thinking and put himself to bed with his face nestled in the fragrant folds of Teresa's unused pillow. He slept soundly til dawn.

* * *

The sun rose with shining enthusiasm, in a clear ice blue and cloudless sky and had soon transformed it to cheerful azure with its golden power. Now it thrust slender shafts of startling brilliance into the silver bucket and onto the face of the sleeping runaway.

Absently Jane brushed the intruder from his cheek and pushed back the blankets cocooning his curled up body; a body chilled to the bone and still in night damp clothes when he'd eventually hit the sack only a few hours ago. He stretched and rubbed tired eyes that ached from lack of sleep, then sat up and took stock of himself … a crumpled, slightly sweaty, fully clothed, sleepy mess, who needed a long shower and several cups of hot strong tea. Since ther was very little hot or even cold water left on board, full on shower wasn't an option, so he would make do with a wash and brush up and a fresh shirt, and major on more tea and some toast, if he could find some bread, to go with the last two eggs in the little fridge. Then he would go catch up with Woody.

First, shoes on and a cuppa to get him going.

Minutes later, cup securely in hand, he flung open the door and immediately tilted his head back and closed his eyes, the better to appreciate the sun on his skin. Standing there in the doorway, he sucked in a long deep breath. And let it seep back out slowly. The warmth of the sun after those couple of hours of precious and blessedly dreamless sleep soon filled him with unexpected optimism.

Without opening his eyes Jane automatically put his foot on the first step with the intention of sitting down. With a little gasp, however, he quickly drew the foot back and his eyes flew open. There was something soft under his shoe where it should be hard. His suit jacket!

He lurched suddenly back and few drops of tea spilled over the edge of the cup and landed on the cloth to match his stained trousers as he nearly dropped the cup, so he turned and put his tea on the shelf just inside the door, before he stooped to pick up the neatly folded garment. As he shook it out to hang it temporarily over the back of the passenger seat to dry, a sheaf of folded papers sticking out of the top pocket scraped crisply against the back of his hand. He looked at them suspiciously, then realised with a grin. He hadn't put them there. So he knew who had.

Jane picked up his now lukewarm tea and downed it in a few big gulps, he dragged the pages impatiently from his jacket and leapt down the steps to see what Woody was playing at.

Except there was no Woody.

No beautiful Betty. Just a big empty, sandy space and a few dusty tyre tracks.

His new friend and confidant was gone; had done a runner, skedaddled, fled the scene of the crime, gone awol … in short he was _absolument disparu_.

Jane stood, flabbergasted for a few moments. The morning had started with a reassuring flush of hope. Now he felt let down. The wandering shrink who'd welcomed him into his home and given so freely of his time and patience had left the job unfinished.

Jane was on his own.

Suddenly, standing alone in the middle of nowhere, with only his worthless self for company, he was once again filled with the familiar uncertainty.

After a minute or two of shuffling the sandy soil around beneath his feet like a little boy, the only instant cure that came to mind was the ubiquitous tea and eggs he'd promised himself, followed by a serious rethink of the plan he didn't have. First, though, curiosity demanded him to take a sneak peek at the mysterious bunch of paperwork clutched in his right hand.

As he turned to climb listlessly back into the van he started to read the first page.

 _Dear Patrick,_ he read _…_

 _I know you're gonna curse me for running out on you like this. Anyhow, I hope you'll forgive me for not stickin' around, but I realised I have some place I need to be. And it's all down to you, my strange friend._

 _I know you'll understand. I wish you the best of luck and a long life full of loving._

 _Enjoy your sleep, read this carefully, then, when you're ready, go get your girl, Paddy._

 _You'll be fine._

 _So long, Woody._

Jane read the page through twice with a slowly developing smile.

The rest of Woody's missive consisted of three pages of closely packed scrawl far too daunting in it's density for a man who'd yet to have his breakfast, although a glance at the first page already had Jane grinning in anticipation. It was topped with words written in double size, upper case letters, heavily underscored and carefully traced over to make them boldly black.

W. A. RUBENSTEIN MD … OFFICIAL HEADED PAPER

A much rejuvenated Jane shoved the pages gleefully under his arm and rushed back inside to rustle up his eggs. Something told him his taste buds would work just fine today … just the knowledge that DR. RUBENSTEIN had somewhere to go filled him full of renewed hope for his own mission to find a way forward.

Thirty minutes later a spruced up and less hungry mentalist sat outside on the steps of his Airstream, basking in the warm mid morning sun, drinking another cup of tea. He'd cheered up so much that the sadly neglected phone had found it's way back into his vest pocket. He hadn't yet found the courage to read his messages, much less check missed calls, but it no longer felt quite so threatening and his pocket didn't feel right without it. Having the phone on his person, although it stirred up guilt in his gut, felt like progress, and progress was progress, no matter how slow, he decided. He thought he'd finish savouring the bottom half of his delicious Assam and then he'd set to reading Woody's hopefully wise words, now snugly residing in his pants pocket. Not that it really mattered too much if the advice was wise or not, what he needed now were starting points to launch himself from and food for thought to keep him going.

Just as the final mouthful of tea rolled slowly around Jane's mouth, the grating noise of the phone interrupted rudely from his vest. Jane swallowed prematurely. He held his breath for a second or two, subconsciously making a note to change that irksome ring tone, then he retrieved the thing with two deft fingers and glanced with trepidation at the glowing screen.

Teresa stared back at him and his heart stopped.

A few moments spent waiting for his ticker to get moving again, and a few more fighting off scarily foreign waves of indecision, were long enough for the screen to fade to black and let him off the hook. Again.

Jane sat staring helplessly at the blankness where her face had been and was no more, while the warm prospect of Woody's words of wisdom slowly dissolved around his feet in familiar puddles of the old guilt and loneliness. He slipped the phone stealthily back into its pocket; but not before his wicked subconscious had made him switch the damned thing off. He hardly realised what he'd done. He just knew he still wasn't ready yet.

Almost as disturbing, though, was the fact that his cup was empty and he was out of fresh water for a refill.

How convenient.

Jane breathed a subtle sigh of unacknowledged relief.

Woody's words would have to wait in favour of practicality.

* * *

By early evening the Airstream was fully refuelled with gas and water and a few supplies. Jane had snacked again in a diner that served miraculously adequate tea and his Woody induced calm had returned; the drive having served to centre him somewhat, his body relaxing into the rhythm of the highway's sinuously hypnotic curves and the engine's gentle drone. Now he was parked up on a picturesque side road that overlooked the Grand Canyon.

The view was straight from the pages of a glossy travel magazine: spectacularly golden, the canyon floor wide and flat, the towering cliffs glorious multi faceted walls of red, russet, ochre and pale yellow, the sky vast and as blue as he'd ever seen, or thought he'd ever see. It certainly seemed to fit the brief.

Some place nice.

Not where he wanted to be, but very nice til he was ready. Whenever that might be.

Ruefully he wondered why he hadn't made a bigger effort to persuade Teresa to come with him, but in his heart he knew the moment had been wrong. Emotions ran to high. Both his and hers.

Sitting on the steps earlier this morning with the weight of the phone in his pocket resting heavy just beneath his heart, it hadn't taken long to decide on a course of action; his reaction to her call had confirmed that it wasn't time. An untimely return was nothing short of stupid; with no plan, his head a chaotic emotional mess and his belly still full of dread, it could only result in a continuation of the situation he'd had to escape … but potentially with the prospect of a furious, hurting and gun toting Lisbon, on the warpath and after his hide.

That's what he would face, if he went back now.

He could not and would not return without at least the beginnings of a plan, and he didn't have one yet.

The best he could offer her at the moment was a seed of hope conceived on an old hippy's virtual couch, and still far from bearing fruit, since the man had done a runner. Even the thought of explaining _that_ to her over the phone was enough to make him shudder.

So, he would delay reading Woody's thoughts until tonight after he'd had his supper. He wouldn't pressurize himself. He would sit and drink in the energy of the sun until it hit the horizon again for the third, or was it fourth, night since he'd left, then he would perhaps be ready to take on board every word with an open mind, and would work out a way to fix this thing.

For now he sat and watched the specks of black that darted and swooped in elegant pirouettes and barrel rolls across the blue blanket of the sky; birds of prey that hovered high and plummeted suddenly, taking shape as they approached and fading back into the blue as they receded. Occasionally a car or truck would race or trundle past to break the spell and paint a smudge of black, or silver or green across his view of the magnificent cliffs that seemed to glow in a haze of amber, gold and copper in the late afternoon heat.

Jane thought he might sit here for ever, calm and untroubled in this beautiful present, with no conscious thought of a painful, guilt ridden past and no fear of an uncertain future.

But, as much as he tried to empty his mind and surrender himself to the healing beauty of his surroundings, in his heart of hearts he knew this unreal day would end; as on every other day, the bright golden orb of the sun would warm to orange, through vermilion and then to deepest, darkest crimson, eventually to set again.

 _Nothing_ gold can stay.

So he sat all afternoon delaying the inevitable, half excited but also scared that the pages wearing a hole in his pocket wouldn't hold any answers, until, as the evening cooled, he made himself a meal of ham and cheese sandwiches on cheap white bread and an apple with a bit of a bruise on the side and he drank a bottle of water.

Then he carefully prepared his tea.

And at last he settled down with Woody's letter to figure out how to go back to Teresa.

 _Patrick,_ the first sheet began, in a scruffy, forward sloping hand, a little way beneath the thick black header, _I won't bullshit you with all the usual psychobabble. I know you don't hold with all that stuff._

 _And I'm not going to beat about the bush; you're an intelligent man. You have all the answers, they are all there for you to see, in what you told me about your past and about Teresa's and in what you say you're feeling right now. If you think about it your problems are very clear, they present as three distinct issues, but of course they are closely and inexorably intertwined; you probably won't solve one without the others, and as I'm sure you realise, it's going to take time._

 _But have faith, my friend. You can do it. It's quite simple really._

 _First ask yourself these questions. I know the answers, but you must search your own heart to be sure, otherwise chuck this paper in the recycling right now._

 _Number one … and most fundamental … do you love her and does Teresa love you?_

 _Two … If you are not there, will she still be in danger? Will your leaving keep her safe?_

 _Three … If you were to pick up a newspaper, sitting far from here in a bar somewhere, months from now, and you read that FBI Agent Teresa Lisbon had been killed in the line of duty, would the pain be any less? Would you still feel the same loss? Would you feel like carrying on any more than you would if_ she _had been the body in that box a few days ago?_

 _Didn't take much thinking about, did it Paddy, my boy?_

 _So that's decided then. Cutting loose isn't the answer. Like you said before, you're going back._

 _Now on to the meaty stuff … how to make it possible and make it happy._

 _Let's get to the practical stuff first, shall we. Both you and Teresa are in the same situation essentially; you feel you would have nothing without her and equally she feels she has nothing but her job …_

Jane felt his jaw clench and his fingers tighten around his mug as he read those words. "She has _me_ ," he exclaimed quietly, but out loud, indignant and very hurt. It came as quite a shock to think that maybe Teresa _didn't_ see their relationship in the same way he did, that she might not feel secure, might not be sure that she had reeled him in, hook line and sinker.

… _I know, I know … I hear you. But to her you're like a will o'the wisp. She probably still feels you could just blow off into the desert in that silver cigar tube of yours like a big old bunch of tumbleweed. It's like that old beau of hers told you … all you're offering her is Patrick Jane._

 _Oh, I know, he's brilliant and exciting, loving and loyal, but he's mercurial, slippery as quicksilver and he comes dragging a sack load of burdens. It's both your attraction and the risk you bring. The whole enigmatic package that makes you hard to resist but harder to commit to._

 _She loves you, of course she does, but she needs something concrete from you. She needs to know for sure that if she were to lose her job … and yes, it is unhealthy to define herself that way …but if she couldn't work anymore, and that time_ will _come, she needs to know she has someone to rely on, who won't drift away one night, on a whim; someone with roots. Teresa needs physical evidence Patrick, all bagged and tagged, that you'll be there if and when that happens. She won't commit to anything other than her job until you show her you're really here to stay, and give her a symbol of your commitment._

 _That's what you have to do …give her something more than words … that,_ _ **and**_ _address the elephant in the room. The one on your finger. I know it means a lot to you Patrick, but do you ever think about how Teresa feels when she sees the man who says he loves her still wearing another woman's ring. It may be just an innocent reminder to you, I don't know, and I'm sure she understands how hard it must be to give it up, but to her it's probably still a physical barrier. She won't commit completely until you can take it off or at least talk to her about it … while you wear it she will always wonder._

Jane's mouth went dry. It was like someone stuck a dagger through his heart; his pulse raced and he suddenly felt panicky, smothered by that clammy cloak of guilt again. This time it encroached malevolently from both sides.

Did he take his ring off and betray Angela or did he keep it on and betray Teresa.

Or could he do right by them both? And how?

Mostly he didn't think about his ring, wasn't even aware of it, except in times of stress, when he needed reassurance and comfort, and those occasions were becoming increasingly infrequent; but it always niggled slightly on the periphery of his minds eye. He'd known for ages that one day he'd have to confront his feelings about the most important symbol in his life; the one whose strength he'd drawn on through all those dark days spent struggling to scrub the influence of that other dreadful symbol from his world. True, the deed was done at last and he'd even had a brief dalliance with living without the ring, but that experience had unnerved him, so he'd shoved the issue aside and ignored it for so long now that he wasn't sure he knew how he felt about it any more.

It was also true that in just the past couple of weeks both Sam and Pete had challenged and encouraged him, but he'd still managed to deflect when the subject of the ring came up. Sitting here on his own though, with nothing to use as distraction, Woody's stark analysis of it's significance in his relationship with Teresa, brought Jane down to earth with a bang. It was time to man up about the ring. Time to think about how to do the right thing: for Angela, for Teresa, and most importantly for himself … for himself because if _he_ didn't feel comfortable about his decision, he couldn't expect his lover to.

As he began to relax again and sat quietly sipping his tea, Jane thought about the journey his ring had taken.

 _His_ journey.

It had been given to him as a symbol of eternal love, had been the spur to urge him on in his quest for revenge, had kept away some of the loneliness during his exile, and he knew he didn't want to let it go entirely, it was part of him, but now he had to plan for it's future.

A future with Teresa Lisbon.

He had an inkling of what he'd like to do, but he wasn't sure if she would go for it. Wasn't sure if he dare suggest … if it was even appropriate … he'd have to give it some more thought … he was hopeful … and the idea gave him a warm glow inside, even brought a glimmer of a smile to his lips, imagining …

But for now he had a letter to finish reading.

 _Now to your great bottomless pit …_ Woody's letter went on _._

 _That one's not so easy, but I guess you know that, it's the reason you're so terrified._

 _There is no way to build an instant safety net Patrick, because these things are made of people: friends, relationships, colleagues, responsibilities, commitments. Most of those things are a two-way deal, my friend, and it seems to me you've spent the years since you lost your family …_ Jane cringed and substituted 'since my family was murdered', then re read _…spent the years since your family was murdered pushing people away, denying yourself any closeness. I'm guessing you don't feel like you have any friends, apart from Teresa, don't feel like you're part of law enforcement, after all you're 'only a consultant' and you never intended to stick around, did you?_

"Huh," grunted Jane. "Till Abbott and his bogus five year contract showed up ... "

 _You still feel like an outsider, but I'd be prepared to stick my neck out and say that despite all your efforts to make things difficult and despite all the baggage you come with, there are people out there who would consider themselves your friends, people who would put their lives on the line to help you._

 _Think back, Patrick._ _I think you'll find it's true._

 _As much as you still like to deny it, don't think you deserve it, you_ do _have backup. It's just that no backup would ever be enough, would it?_

 _While you're still consumed with fear._

 _That's what we have to tackle … that thing that's festering in your head. What you feel. What you believe. Not what actually_ is _. It's the tough part, yeah … but the only part that really matters._

 _The first practical thing you should do is take a step back. Avoid what scares you. If you can't bear to watch Teresa place herself in danger, don't do it._

 _I know you'll say that's cowardly, but it's not, it's pragmatism. Your bosses want you to close cases. You can't do it if you drive a wedge between you and the team by interfering and you can't to it if you worry yourself back into an asylum. They know that, so take some time out of the front line, get a hobby, start a project …I don't know what, but concentrate on something else. And if that something is for you and Teresa, so much the better._

 _I know what you're thinking. She's still in danger and you're still terrified and yes that's true, but it's a start._

 _Don't worry though, it's not so daunting, 'manning up' … you do realize you've already taken the first steps?_

 _You don't?_

 _Then ask yourself another question._

 _Do you think you're weak, a coward, do you think you're unworthy ?_

 _If the answer's yes, you need to ask yourself some more questions._

Jane instantly dismissed the first part of the challenge, the answer a painfully obvious yes.

The second gave him pause for thought; two women had loved him, and they weren't stupid women. The first had loved him without reserve and had borne him a beautiful daughter, the second had taken the very worst he could throw at her and still come up smiling all over with her love for him, and she hadn't done that lightly.

Surely, no matter what he thought of himself, he couldn't be totally undeserving, not so unworthy, if he was good enough to have won their love.

He answered both parts of the question with a definite yes though, he was coward, and yes, definitely unworthy, and went on to the supplementary questions, because the guilt that still often popped out to sit on his shoulder, told him to.

 _Does a coward spend a quarter of his precious life searching for his family's killer?_

 _Does a coward follow through on the promise he made and succeed against all odds?_

 _Does a coward consider ending his own life, but make the decision to live on?_

 _Does a coward who thinks he isn't worthy, chase down a plane and make an ass of himself to declare his undying love to the woman who just told him the bitter truth about himself?_

 _And, tell me, how_ does _a man who is unworthy win the love of two women in one lifetime?_

Jane allowed himself a wry chuckle, he could see Woody was in full flow, digging little holes and tossing the earth into Jane's big pit to make his fall that bit softer.

'I think I already answered one of those … you're waffling Woody, my man,' he thought, although he didn't allow himself to feel too satisfied, he just read on.

 _Does a coward admit that he was not such a good man and spend years seeking redemption?_

 _And does a coward admit that it's okay to be afraid?_

 _Still think you're a worthless coward Patrick?_

 _I don't think you are, but I don't know what you think, so I'm going to assume that you're not won over yet. I'm going to tell you to embrace your cowardice … only call it a healthy respect for life._

 _That's all fear is._

 _Its what keeps us alive, what tempers the dangerous decisions that bravery or rashness make for us. And I'll tell you one thing, a man without fear is a fool, and very likely on the way to becoming either a dead fool or an unhappy fool. You did some foolish things my friend, some worked out, some didn't, but you did them when you weren't afraid. But_ you _know the difference._

You _, Patrick Jane are no fool and no coward._

 _On a personal note now, if anyone in the world is entitled to be afraid that life might come back to bite him in the backside, after what you've told me, it's you. You believe in Karma and you're still scared it'll catch up with you. I know what happened before is what's eating you up inside, but being able to admit that you may not be psychologically equipped to cope with loss is the biggest step in confronting that fear and dealing with it._

 _So fear got a little bit out of hand again._

 _You're entitled._

 _You've lived that nightmare before. You know what its like. And struggling to handle it is nothing to be ashamed of, doesn't make you any less of a man. Being afraid doesn't make you a coward … did I say that before? … it makes you human and being human means you have the capacity to love and to be loved._

 _That's Karma too Patrick._

 _I can see you, in my mind's eye now, getting uncomfortable, thinking ' the man's going all 'love and peace' hippy dippy on me', so I'm gonna throw caution to the wind, cos it's nearly daybreak and I need my bed. I'm gonna quote from a song, Nature Boy, written by a guy called Eden Ahbez in 1947, way before hippies grew their hair and swapped shoes for sandals. Listen to the Nat King Cole version when you have a moment …good for the soul …would have played it for you if I'd given it a thought …goes like this …_

" _The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love … and be loved in return."_

 _That's it. Pure and simple._

 _That's really all I have to say. You've talked to_ me _. Now go back to_ Teresa _and talk to her. You've_ told _her you don't want to lose her, but you haven't_ talked _to her. Make her listen. Set aside some private time each week, a few hours away from work. Talk about anything, talk enough and the hard subjects will come up, don't force it, but don't let her deflect, and don't be scared._

 _Go back and fill your life with so much love and fun that you forget your fear and she forgets that her job is who she is._

 _Fill your lives, and talk, talk, talk._

 _Sounds a bit nebulous doesn't it, and it won't be an instant fix, but if you really love her, I promise it will work._

 _In the meantime …_

 _Give her the physical evidence._

 _Accept and embrace your fear._

 _Take a step back and start a project._

 _Fill your life with something else._

 _And talk._

* * *

 **There will be a short homecoming and follow up chapter, which I will get out before Christmas. PROMISE.**

 **Then I intend, if any of you would be interested, to pick up and continue my long neglected story Roll Like a Stuntman.**

 **In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this chapter.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Obviously the first thing I must do is to apologise for the very tardy arrival of this chapter. I really had intended to get it up before Christmas, but I won't bother you with excuses ... there are none.**

 **I'd like to thank you all for sticking with me, if you are still reading. And for your lovely reviews and encouragement. Believe me I have given up multiple times and it's thanks to a special few of you (you know who you are) that I am still around.**

 **This was going to be the final chapter, but I felt I needed to give some more space to just Jane & Lisbon, so that will follow as the final chapter and consequently this one will be a little shorter.**

 **I very much hope you enjoy this little bit more of just Jane.**

* * *

When Jane finally crawled into his unmade bed sometime in the wee small hours, after reading Woody's letter, he dragged a blanket carelessly over his fully clothed body, and let the wisdom of the hippy psychiatrist's words sooth him into a few hours of undisturbed slumber.

And when he woke the next morning, refreshed and with new hope flowing through his veins, it was to a scene shrouded in the gauzy mist that promised another long hot day of cloudless skies and blazing sun.

It was the kind of day that reminded him of early childhood.

Of his own; surrounded by the bustle and heat and dust of the carnival, or of those blissful days when Charlotte was a toddler and the sea breeze would skip around them, bringing cooling relief as they played happily on the beach with their fair skin slathered in fragrant lotion and their feet buried deep in the warm white sand.

He had decided before retiring, that this morning he would take a walk along the path that climbed steeply from the corner of his parking spot and led up through the rocky outcrops into the hills above.

There he could find a place to sit in peace and figure out what project or hobby would complete his plan.

He would search for something he could do that would occupy his mind and his time, but would also be something for Teresa. Something to convince her that he was more than just a passing ship in the night, albeit one that had been moored to her dock for over a decade, but nevertheless one who could give up on whatever was anchoring him there and sail off into the sunset at any time. Not that he ever intended to leave again, of course, and not that he would have left in the past if circumstances had been different, but still, _she_ needed reassurance and _he_ needed a solid distraction from his crippling anxiety.

After two cups of tea, and the last of his latest supply of eggs, Jane was almost ready to embark on his short walk into the hills. Except that his last few gulps of the second cup were rudely interrupted by another call from Teresa that he sat on the steps and steadfastly refused to answer.

Woody had advised, 'don't talk till you're ready'. So he had tried not to feel too guilty about not picking up, although he berated himself for turning on his phone when he had no intention of speaking to anybody. He supposed it was that old 'secretly wanting to see her face and hear her voice' again that made him turn the phone on again but, although he was feeling pretty positive this morning, he wasn't going to get into any kind of conversation until he could present a solution without screwing things up.

He was close though.

And told himself sternly that maybe today he could do it.

The stroll, which soon became a hike and then a breathless clamber up to the ridge confirmed his suspicions … the grand 'give Lisbon some evidence / keep yourself sane' project, advocated by Woody and endorsed with some relief by himself, had to contain an element of physical activity.

As he'd sat in the man's virtual consulting room, he'd been dreading the prospect of the discussion turning to his general state of mind, because he knew it didn't take a genius to notice that some of his behaviour, both past and present, and certainly over the hours spent with Woody, showed symptoms of depression. He could admit to having been surprised that his new shrink's letter hadn't advised exercise as a coping strategy, but came to the conclusion that maybe Woody was more perceptive or perhaps more cautious than he appeared and, that being so, any such suggestion would have been greeted with snorts of derision or outright belligerence. Perhaps Jane wasn't the only one who realised that he was perfectly capable of diagnosing and treating himself, when he saw fit to admit there was something to treat.

As he reached the top of the hill and lay there panting on a pile of sandy dirt, legs and arms spread star like around him and eyes closed, Jane felt his lungs heaving like squeaky human bellows as they tried to refuel his screaming muscles. Yep, he was a smidge out of shape, but when he opened his eyes at looked up at the empty sky, he could already feel himself relaxing and the cobwebs being blown off in wisps to make tiny fluffy clouds in the wide and very blue yonder.

It occurred to him that exercise or at the very least, something more active than sitting on a couch solving riddles could indeed kill two birds with one stone. Good for his state of mind and his no longer young body, and something to reassure his prospective life partner. For, although it had crept up on him somewhat sneakily, he realised that was indeed what his very close colleague had become. If he could figure this problem of his out, they could graduate from 'lovers taking each day as it comes' to something much, much more.

It was why he had to remove his ring.

Well she could hardly wear two rings on the same finger.

Even though he had more or less decided on a plan of action for the ring, even that wouldn't be enough. Besides he had already resolved not to broach _that_ subject until everything else was in place.

It was clear he couldn't present the lovely Teresa with nothing but this puffing old bag of bones that lay at the top of a hill miles from anywhere.

He was basically a homeless man: with nothing to his name but an Airstream on loan, a half destroyed beach house, with a grizzly past, that he never wanted to set foot in again, a bank account full of ill gotten gains that hadn't been touched for years out of guilt and apathy, and a head presently almost completely bereft of good ideas.

Pike had indeed been right.

It really was true; all he was offering Teresa was his intellect, his quirky charm and promises to be a better man … oh, and his undying love. While this was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, it was no match for the perceived and actual security that came with her job.

Ah, there was the rub.

Job versus Jane.

And he had to give her a solution that allowed for both.

Although, on reflection, there _was_ one ray of hope; she had thrown back the fish … who seemed to have everything … to be with him.

And she _did_ love him.

So, the final part of the puzzle had to be something fairly physical, with a certain amount of longevity, or she wouldn't be convinced, and something very tangible.

And it had to engage him enough to block out his fear until he could finally overcome it.

But what to do?

At first, after a little talk to himself about relaxation and 'letting it flow', the ideas came thick and fast.

They were dismissed just as quickly.

Bee keeping … he had to laugh at that. It _had_ been a joke, but was something he could have found interest in … unfortunately Lisbon's back yard was pocket sized, and she would be mortified … and scared.

They could take up riding together: fresh air, exercise, mucking out stables knee deep in hay and horse dung … a step too far for city girl Teresa. Anyway, her birthday pony, tiny and cute though it was, had been a baptism of fire for her; much as she liked the gesture, she'd never been comfortable with it. Four legs that didn't belong to dogs and didn't live indoors were way outside her comfort zone.

So, nothing with wildlife then.

A school for budding magicians and performers … scratch that … uncomfortably near his old 'profession'. She'd have a hissy fit! Also, not terribly active.

He could buy some land and start a vineyard … she likes a glass of wine. Plenty of hard physical work, which was good. Years from planting to bottling, so no chance of moving on … he did like to see a job through. But Texas ? … did anyone grow vines in the Lone Star State? He'd have to investigate …

…one to keep in mind though …

A peanut farm? No … too boring … and they grow underground … what's that all about? Besides he'd already negotiated that lifetime supply.

Dance classes … now there _was_ an intriguing idea, but it would require both of them to attend ( he wasn't going to dance with any other partner), but that would defeat the object … to keep him occupied while Teresa risked life and limb in the name of the law. And no commitment anyway; he could dip out on a whim. Something for the future though. Definitely. Together. In their retirement.

He could learn a sport and join a team, that would require commitment … NO .. a step too far for him this time. _Not_ sporty. _Not_ a team player.

The ideas kept on coming.

And they kept on disappointing.

Despite his best efforts, even the conman couldn't convince himself.

Particularly when he was hot and thirsty.

Frustrated and weary, Jane rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, feeling it tender with the stinging burn of sitting too long exposed to the unforgiving sun, which had risen to almost it's full height. He took a long breath and as he expelled it slowly his eyes swept the iconic landscape from horizon to horizon and came back down to settle on the little silver rectangle far below, sparkling incongruously amid the rustic earthy hues.

It, and he, did not belong here.

And he wasn't doing what he did best … using his intuition, going with his first impression, responding to his environment, reading the situation, the people . This was not his environment; the people (person) who mattered weren't here. No solution would be dropping into his lap while he sat here dreaming, far away from everything that was still important in his life.

He was wasting precious time … and that _thing_ that was eating away at him still niggled his insides.

Made him sad and depressed.

Time for a change of scene.

Getting pulled over by the cops was not something Jane had anticipated, since he'd negotiated to include maintenance when he'd made his deal with Abbott there shouldn't be an issue with the Airstream.

As turned to retrieve his documents, his mind wandered.

The deal had turned out to be one he was still proud of and when he thought to count his blessings, he found he was sometimes even surprised by.

Hell, he _should_ be proud of it; he'd been given everything he demanded.

Except his freedom.

The only slight wrinkle he hadn't been able to smooth out was his five year tie to the bureaucratic nightmare that was the feebs, with their cold hard floors and their cold hard hearts. He'd tried his best to soften their edges, but recently it was feeling more and more like a millstone around his neck, even with the obvious compensations; still, could he run and get away from all the threat of death and violence now, even if he wanted to?

His primary demand, the deal breaker, made it a moot question anyway.

Sacking off the mighty FBI permanently, without Lisbon, or rather with her still there?

It wasn't going to happen.

Looked like, for the time being, he was stuck with the millstone.

A hand thrust something in front of his face; the cop was satisfied with his paperwork.

So, with a busted taillight or some other technical infringement probably not the issue, and as he was sure that, even he wasn't capable of breaking the speed limit on these snaking but picturesque roads in a cumbersome old bus like his silver bucket, it was a little puzzling that he'd been stopped. Unless his concentration had wandered and he'd been weaving dangerously, which these days wasn't beyond the realms of possibility.

More curious still, was the fact that he wasn't in the least perturbed. In fact he was quite relieved; until the officer had him slammed against the Airstream's silvery bodywork and it occurred to him to ask what he was supposed to have done.

The warm rush that ran through him when he heard the word 'failure to appear' made it hard for him to restrain a giggle, though. In fact he'd never been more pleased to raise his hands for a man in uniform; and he'd done that many a time.

It was obvious who'd set the law on him.

With the image of the culprit's fierce little frown floating before his face and the ire in the rising pitch of her voice ringing in his ears, he let wide smile spread from ear to ear.

He was thrilled she could still surprise him … and what's more, it meant she wanted him back. If only to punish him with the tongue lashing he no doubt deserved and possibly a punch.

On second thoughts, probably not a punch, since the situation was far too serious for that.

He gave himself up with an undisguised sigh of relief and counted himself fortunate in one respect. When he'd turned out of the anonymous diner after another dreadful snack stop and onto whatever highway he was presently on, it had turned out to be in the direction of Texas … and that meant less time shackled like a criminal in the back of a squad car. _Not_ his favourite place.

As it was, he couldn't help having a sneaking admiration for the devious machinations of his homesick subconscious. Not withstanding the fact that he still hadn't firmed up his plan of action any more than he had after a very late night mulling over Woody's prescription, and more time spent that morning, he was beginning to tire of apple pie, bad eggs, even worse tea and tasteless juke box music.

And of being alone.

He'd even begun to miss Woody.

His subconscious was wise. It was time to go home and face the music.

As the officer pushed roughly down on the top of his head to shove him into the car he made a note to consider the fact that he was using the word home with almost worrying frequency.

As he settled, Jane did consider.

And found that home was indeed a word he should start getting used to again.

With luck he might be going home.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Final chapter will not be for a few weeks as I'm off to France to see if my cottage has survived the winter.**


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